


Shatter

by MarleyMortis



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Contradicting Religious Teaching, Demisexual!Bucky, Dominant Steve Rogers, Effects of Conversion Therepy, F/M, Flogging, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Homophobic Slurs, Intercrural Sex, Kink, M/M, Modern AU, Phalloplasty, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Reconnecting with divorced spouse, Sexual Discovery, Shibari, Sounding, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are divorced, The End Game is Stucky, Their Other Sexual Partners Are Temporary, Top Steve Rogers, Trans Clint Barton, Vaginal Sex, War Veteran Bucky, multiple sex partners, post-winter soldier bucky, religious discussions, submissive bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-10-15 20:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 77,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10557404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: Bucky Barnes' life has hit a skid.  After his high school sweetheart divorced him, his life is solidly lodged in a rut with few prospects and little motivation for change.  After witnessing a murder at a local airport, he goes into hiding to avoid the murderer from shutting him up.  Permanently.  He finds himself hiding on Eden, a resort specializing in kink.  And because the cosmos are out to laugh in his face, he soon discovers his ex-husband is running the joint.  Because of course he is.Reconnecting is a rocky road when people are out to kill Bucky and his emotions are compromised by the sudden discovery of his kink side.  What would his religious parents have to say about that?  Nothing good.The Exit to Eden AU literally no one asked for, but I felt like writing anyway.





	1. Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was supposed to be something fun and light-hearted, but it seems I am incapable of fun and fluff without throwing in angst. Fair warning: This is gonna be one of the most erotic things I've ever written, and I will try to keep up with tags going forward. At it's heart, I wanted this fic to be about sexual awakening and the damages caused by Puritan values.
> 
> I will try to update weekly, but with several projects going on, it might be a little longer than that between updates.
> 
> Come and visit with me at [Tumblr](http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/)

You could say that Bucky Barnes' life had hit a skid doing a hundred and ten flat out down a straight away. Add up one part-time job doing maintenance at a bowling alley, one freelance photography career sliding down the tubes, a failed marriage, and a sister he hadn't spoken to in three years, and that equaled bupkis. Times that by zero-- Actually, you can't times by zero. So, back to bupkis. Nada. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. No mas pantalones.

“Where is my fucking camera lens?”

He tore through a corner of the house and paused, hand hovering over a burgundy polo shirt. Someone could have stabbed him in the chest and it would have hurt less. Eventually, he picked the garment up and brought it to his nose, but none of Steve's scent remained. Not after five years. The only comfort he could scrape together was pressing the garment against his chest.

The beep of his alarm dragged his attention away, and he finally spied what he was looking for beneath a stack of mail. He pushed the envelopes aside to grab the lens, pausing, head cocked to the side, upon spying the brochure beneath. A picture of a tropical island graced the cover. 'Eden,' it proclaimed, 'where the open-minded come to explore their sexuality.' Beneath, he found information on joining the island as a guest or an employee. They were actively advertising for Submissives.

“Huh.” He blinked a time or two before his alarm went off again.

To top it all off, he scalded his tongue on his morning coffee while high tailing it from his one bedroom cottage—he'd gotten the house in the divorce—to make the bus into town. There was a protest at the airport. Something about closing down the only airport within a hundred miles of small town Gopher Hole, Indiana. No. Really. He lived in a town called Gopher Hole.

Anyhow, Bucky had it in mind to photograph the protest in hopes of making a few bucks by selling a picture to the local rag. The Gopher Hole Gazette was recession-proof. There were still residents who looked at you funny when you mentioned internet. That was as small as small town America could get.

One public bus, a brief jog, and a kindly protester later, and he arrived outside the small facility. All residents of Gopher Hole and its surrounding towns accounted for. They lined up outside the front door with signs expressing their discontent with Hammer Industries, the owner of the facility in question.

Setting up the tripod was easy. He mounted his camera and proceeded to take several shots from various angles while an older woman stood atop the hood of someone's car shouting phrases like “Keep the Gopher Hole Open” and “Access to transportation is more important than profit.” He wasn't the only one having trouble keeping a straight face over the first slogan.

“Man, you need to get laid, Barnes. Turning a protest slogan into something erotic?”

Feeling sexy after the divorce had been a challenge. It kinda blew a guy's self esteem when his husband accused him of not being adventurous enough in bed, not being able to open up and expand his horizons. How was it his fault that Steve had been so amazing in bed that he hadn't been interested in spicing up their sex life? Wasn't that supposed to be a compliment? 'You fulfill me enough that I don't need to explore your kink.'

The facts struck him while he lined up a shot of airport security squaring off against a protestor. It had been five years since he'd had sex. Literally, the last time he'd orgasmed from anything except his hand had been the night before Steve had asked for a divorce. That was sad.

Bucky vowed then and there to pop by the local watering hole later to see if anyone interested him. For now, he followed a family into the terminal to look for any other human interest stories. The gods of photography smiled upon him, as a combat soldier was just reuniting with his family. The media ate that shit up. Of particular interest was the man's empty sleeve. 

He could hear his ex-husband's phantom voice already. 'You really gonna profit off another person's misfortune, Buck?' The answer was a resounding 'Yep!' Someone was going to. Might as well be the struggling bowling alley maintenance dude who hadn't been able to pick himself back up after his own disastrous deployment. Add that to his list of fuck-ups. Thirty-eight year old ex-sergeant, divorcee, failed photographer, bowling alley maintenance dude who hadn't been laid in five years.

Six years in the military, and he'd come home with a head full of scars, a bed full of nightmares, and one melted arm. Okay, so the arm hadn't been melted. It was still usable, but the scarring was extensive, and he'd spent way too much money getting them covered with a full sleeve of tattoos. Steve had been there to pick out every piece of art. Looking at the artwork was now something of a kick in the gut. Yes, he was still bitter.

Shot obtained, Bucky headed into the bathroom to take care of personal business, and it was there that his day got a whole lot more exciting. He was in the back stall struggling with a zip on his camera bag when a young man entered behind him. He only got a quick view through the crack in the door of someone wearing loose jeans, a thick hoodie, and a grungy baseball cap. Anyhow, said person must not have noticed him, as they proceeded to lock the bathroom door and strip down to a black cat suit. The cat suit left nothing to the imagination. A shock of white hair tumbled from the baseball cap.

“Look, tell the boss that I'm on schedule for delivery. We'll meet at the designated location. There was just a tiny hiccup in my plans.”

Someone on the other end of the connection spoke.

“Flint.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Flint, would you please stop freaking out? My luggage wound up on a different flight, that's all. No. It's inside my luggage. I'm about to retrieve it now.”

The other person spoke again.

“No, it's not gonna be a problem.”

More silence.

“Okay. Fine. I'll see you in New York.”

Well, if that didn't sound like criminal behavior, he didn't know what was. It was enough to pique his photojournalist mind, so when the lady stuffed her carry on behind one of the toilets and left, he was hot on her heels. Okay, so maybe following a possible-criminal from an airport bathroom on the off chance he could get an incriminating photograph wasn't the brightest decision of his life. There was danger inherent in skulking around possible-criminals, but he didn't really have much to lose. Also? The rewards far outweighed the risk. See: Storm-Chasers.

So it was entirely Bucky's fault that he witnessed a murder. He had ample opportunity to tuck tail and run but ignored every warning sign. He had to be an idiot and follow the mysterious lady into the lost luggage claim with enough time to spare that he snapped a few pictures of her slipping a knife into the attendant's neck. Blood went everywhere. It wasn't like in the movies where it sheeted down someone's neck. No, once the arteries were cut, it was like a nozzle spraying every which way, on the floor, on the walls, on the goddamn ceiling. There was no way to cleanly slice a person's throat.

He snapped photo after photo while the murderer rooted through the luggage behind the counter, finally coming up with a nondescript checked bag. It was red and black with no distinguishing features to differentiate it from a thousand other pieces of luggage.

She deposited it on the counter and unfastened the case, fumbling around inside until she produced what appeared on the outside to be a book. The book opened to reveal a contraption that ultimately contained a vial of purple liquid that emanated a light of its own. A smile lit up the woman's face. Pocketing the vial, she closed the luggage and snapped up the rolling handle. That was when things took a turn toward the awful.

His heel clipped a garbage can while he backed away. The thing fell over and went rolling across the floor. Next thing he knew, the lady was standing face to face with him, his camera mid-position to look through the view finder. Shock made them stare at each other for more than a couple heartbeats.

“Yeah, I'm just gonna...”

He turned tail and fled, yelping when a bullet punctured the masonry near his head. All he needed to do, he said to himself, was make it back to the front where a crowd awaited him. Surely she wouldn't risk firing on him in an open crowd with numerous witnesses.

Horror widened his eyes when a big trolly filled with bags rolled across the hallway. That army training came in handy for a change, as he was able to roll over the obstacle without missing a beat, at which point, he spilled through a door and into the main terminal where people bustled to and fro.

There were just seconds to spare. He slammed into someone upon dashing through the front doors into the awaiting protesters, turning once he had several people around him to see if she still gave chase. A flash of white hair pulled his attention toward her roaming the outskirts of the crowd. Their eyes met for a few seconds. She prowled like a predator, a hunting cat, eyes spitting the promise of death.

Getting a cab proved sufficient to his get-away needs. She didn't know his name or his location, but it wasn't like she would have to search for a needle in a haystack for him. Gopher Hole didn't have haystacks. It had stubbly grass. She would totally be able to find him, he the mouse to her owl-eyes.

That meant saving his own ass became the lesser evil when pitted against waiting for his demise or going to local law enforcement. Old sheriff Graham would totally bust a cap in her bottom. Law enforcement always did a bang up job hiding people in witness protection. Just ask his old army pal Luis. Luis would tell you how the cops had totally witness protected him after witnessing a drug deal gone wrong. The cartel had removed two of his fingers before the Feds realized they had a leak.

Luis now owned a waffle truck in Bangkok.

Yep. Saving his own neck. He got home with enough time to throw some of his belongings into a bag, which included his camera and all his film, before his eyes landed on the brochure for Eden. 'Now accepting applications from Submissives interested in working our upcoming Summer season.'

***

“Why couldn't you be the stripper?” Clint asked into their communication devices.

Silence.

“Natasha.”

More silence.

“Man, I'm serious. Why do I gotta be the one wearing psychedelic booty shorts?”

A put-upon sigh.

“Natty-Boo.”

“Sweetheart, one more word, and I'll strangle you with your glittery thong.”

Sweat dampened his palms. He scrubbed them on his thighs but it did little to stop the nerves torquing his insides into knots. The tip of his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. He huffed in indignation and moved aside the heavy curtain to peek into the audience.

Their sources were about eighty percent positive one of the underworld's biggest scoundrels was in the audience that night. No one knew his real name. No one had seen his face before. Their only good intel on the guy was that he was middle-aged, had a slight paunch, and seemed indistinguishable from any businessman of his class. One informant had described him as “fading hair, average height, and medium everything else.” The closest they'd ever gotten to identifying him was arresting a few low level thugs who hadn't laid eyes on him before. Even if they had, they were more afraid of the man they called “Father” than they were of the NYPD.

He huffed again, unable to draw a full breath through the tightness of his airways. Out on stage, a stripper shook his groove thang in the middle of a spotlight that set his neon thong alight with sparkle. They called him the God of Mischief, and he was an expert in bouncing his ass to draw the most attention. Okay, so it was a shapely ass. No one could deny that. A customer stuffed a handful of bills into Loki's g-string for his efforts, and the guy came prancing behind the curtain.

Fuck, Clint was gonna be sick. An emcee cut through the clamor in the audience to introduce “The Magnificent Hawkeye,” he couldn't ignore the chuff of laughter over the communication devices from his partner. Never living this moment down. Ever.

See, Detective Romanoff was a former dancer. Put her in a g-string and she would had the audience eating out of her hands. Not so with Clint Barton, who just happened to be of the male persuasion while playing undercover in a gay strip club. His idea of dancing was bopping back and forth on the balls of his feet. That was not gonna cut it with the patrons of Cocky Birds. 

“I don't wanna do this,” he breathed, all of his earlier cocksure attitude fleeing.

“My darling, if you can shake your ass as readily as you flap your jaws, you might look like a professional.” Easy for her to say when the most strenuous thing she had to do was lift a copper mug to her lips to sip the Moscow Mule she'd been nursing all night.

Wild horses couldn't make him admit how genuine his present anxiety was, so he skulked out on stage. The spotlight flicked on, drowning him in light and drawing every eye in the joint in his direction. He bounced back and forth to the beat of the music. Or at least as close to the beat as he could manage with his bad ear and lack of groove.

“You mention this to anyone and I'll replace your coffee with decaf,” he murmured.

Patrons got up in ones and twos to flock toward the bar rather than watch him dance. Not that it surprised him. Girls at the precinct made sport of his ass and arms. Sure, he'd overheard a couple of beat cops suggesting that putting a bag over his head was necessary for enjoyment, but he had tried not to let that get to him. Funny thing about self-esteem. It remembered the bad stuff more readily.

He sauntered over to the pole and swung around it in an attempt to add a little more spice to his routine. Naturally, his sweaty hands made keeping a sure grip practically impossible, and he wound up on his ass instead of showing it off. Someone booed. 

Clint swallowed past his shame and said, “Big guy. Near the back of the club.”

“Got him.”

Nat stole a serving tray from one of the barely-dressed waiters and danced her way through the tables to get a better vantage on what was going down in the dark corner.

The man who approached was a mountain, sporting huge shoulders and a narrow waist constrained in a form-fitting sweater made of alternating bars of green and sage. Another ounce of flesh, and the shirt would have given up the ghost. He carried a satchel that was deposited on the tabletop with a thunk that made two of the men in the corner booth cringe. Darkness concealed the third man.

With the spotlight in his eyes and half his attention on grinding his ass against the pole, he couldn't make out any identifying details. The only thing visible was the faint outline of dark hair, temples winged at the side, and a pair of glasses. It wasn't enough to make a positive ID.

In the booth, a heated argument was taking place. Big and Broad may have demanded more money. If so, it was a request the goons found laughable. Mystery Man, meanwhile, unzipped the case to peer into its contents. Something like relief eased tension from his shoulders, but Clint could only see a faint purple glow emanating from the satchel, not enough to even guess at the contents.

Naturally, that was when Clint's grace deserted him. He was so busy studying the scene to take in the details that he stepped right off the edge of the stage and would have face-planted in a bachelor party's drinks were it not for the quick hands that steadied him. The fact that someone used the opportunity to grope his dick through the thin fabric of his shorts made him squeak and swat at the offending hands. 

Shame arrived fast in the wake of his shock, but he didn't have time to give vent to the desire to race into the shadows where he belonged. He only had time to recognize the sound of gunshots and scramble into a better position to see Nat giving chase through the staff only door. 

He flung himself off the table, darted a glance toward the empty corner, and then pursued his partner, pausing only long enough to to grab his shoulder holster from a cubby back stage and wriggle into it. They burst into the city streets, Nat dressed in a standard pantsuit and Clint in his sparkly underpants, to watch Big and Broad disappear around a corner chased by two goons.

Meanwhile, a dark limo pulled out from a public parking lot going in the opposite direction. He had just enough time to get a plate number before scampering after Natasha. It was too late, though. By the time they arrived, two dead bodies slumped on the pavement, necks snapped. There was no sign of their mystery delivery boy.

Nat wordlessly cuffed him across the back of the head.

He wanted to sink through the pavement. His partner didn't need to lecture him about maintaining focus during an op; he knew what he'd done wrong, but it hurt just a little bit more coming from her.

Later and with considerably more clothes, he led the way back into the precinct. He knew himself well enough to know the shame of his poor performance would take a few days to evaporate, so it wasn't a surprise when he flinched at Fury barking from his office. Clint went like a puppy who knew its nose was gonna be rubbed in shit for making a mess.

Nat nabbed a few M&Ms from a jar on Fury's desk. “No positive ID. Couldn't get a clear look at him, but we're pretty sure Father was there tonight. You got anything to add Clint-and-Kaboodle?”

“Got a license plate number from a limo pulling away from the scene at the same time the murders went down.” Snatching a pad of post-its from Fury's desk, he jotted it down for the chief.

Fury, however, just pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you know how long it took us to get that tip? I give you one job. That snitch practically gift-wrapped him for us.”

Clint opened his mouth to take responsibility, but his partner beat him to it.

“It was no one's fault, Chief. The situation escalated in the blink of an eye.”

“They get away with the delivery?”

“Yep,” she responded.

Chief Fury leaned back in his chair, twisting the cap on a pen while studying them. “We received a tip. Some photographer may have gotten identifying photographs of one of Father's highest-level operatives. The Black Cat murdered a baggage claim specialist at an airport in Indiana.”

Their attention was drawn toward a television screen where security footage from the airport played. A man, laden down with camera gear, high-tailed it through the airport while being pursued by a woman in a slinky catsuit. The footage only lasted a few seconds before freezing on a grainy image of the photographer. It was too muddled to get a good look at Black Cat's face.

“Detectives received a tip in identifying the photographer. Couple of people at the scene said it might be James Barnes, former sergeant in the US Army. His arrest record is sparse, just a few misdemeanors for disorderly conduct at protests and rallies. He did serve as a character witness in a trial. The People Vs. Steve Rogers. It was a felony battery charge. Rogers served three years at Riker's Island.”

“Want us to bring him in, Furiosa?”

“We've got officers stationed outside his home in—check this out—Gopher Hole, Indiana. Hasn't been home since we reviewed the footage. Our last hit was a passport check booking passage on a yacht owned by the Eden Company. Looks like he's fleeing the country.”

“Why not just turn himself in?” asked Clint. “Unless he has something to hide.”

“Barnes' VA records aren't accessible. Still waiting on clearance and warrants, but he's been seen by a VA appointed therapist. Could be a mental block about trusting authority. Anyhow, that's what you two are supposed to find out. Gotta be honest, though, this Eden Company is a little...” He wobbled his hand from side to side and pushed a brochure across the table.

Clint took one look at the interior and dropped it like a hot rock. “Ah, Hell no.”

“Mr. Barton--”

“You just had me on a stage dressed in booty shorts, Chief. They grabbed my dick. Now you want me to take a vay-k to a sex island in the tropics where they beat people with whips and chains. Y'all ain't paying me enough for this shit.”

“We've already spoken to the people at Eden. Their CEO, Pepper Pots, has agreed to make space available for the both of you. One of you will go in as part of the maintenance crew. You'll have the run of the island. The other will go undercover as a guest. I'll leave you to decide who does what.”

“I'm a goddamn cop, Fury, not a sex therapist.”

“Darling, there's some tension here between your libido and your Puritan upbringing, I'm sensing. Please, if you'll be more comfortable, I'll be the guest. You be part of the maintenance crew.”

Clint slid farther down his chair and refused to look either of them in the face.


	2. We've Got the Biggest Balls of Them All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky admits he may have made a rash decision signing up to be a submissive on Eden. Meanwhile, Clint and Nat make landfall on the island.

It was entirely possible Bucky had jumped the gun, made a snap decision, and had just signed himself up for something incredibly no-good-not-nice. He handed over his paperwork to a model-gorgeous woman and followed the signs into medical. There were half a dozen other people on the yacht going through the intake process with him, so at least he wasn't alone.

A young woman instructed him to undress and put on the waiting hospital gown. They were going to check his prostate, take blood, the full work up. It also included a full battery of tests rooting out any STI's he carried. He wanted to tell them he couldn't possibly be infected considering he hadn't slept with anyone in five goddamn years, but he doubted they would take his word for it.

Having a prostate exam? Not fun. There was nothing sexy about a stranger shoving their finger up your ass and feeling your balls for any deformities. He turned his head to the side and coughed. Turned to the other side and coughed again. Then the doctor was taking notes on his file.

Open up. Say “ah.” Take deep breaths. Follow the pen with your eyes. The whole shebang took less than twenty minutes, so there was that.

Moments later, he was allowed to dress and found himself shuffled into a different room that contained a desk and two chairs. Shelves on the wall behind the desk contained various devices he wasn't familiar with. Sure, he knew a dildo from a vibrator, a butt plug from a prostate milker. But were they really going to use flogs on him? The thought did something to his insides. He wasn't sure what.

The man who entered after him wore red-tinted sunglasses and Burberry. He opened Bucky's file and sat behind the desk, indicating Bucky should take the other seat. This guy was totally model-hot, too. Bucky was starting to feel a little left-out of the hotness parade.

“My name's Scott. I'm the personal assistant to our Master Dominant. You've signed up as a Submissive, so you'll be working directly under him. It's my job to negotiate with you as to your experience and limits before turning you over to him.”

Bucky fiddled with the elastic hair tie on his wrist. “I don't have a lot of experience.”

“That's okay. Eden caters to all experience levels.”

“I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“How is this legal? Isn't it prostitution?”

“Eden is a sovereign nation not bound to abide by any outside laws or regulations. Neither are you subject to American laws while spending time in our borders. However, even if that weren't the case, you're not being paid for sexual intercourse. You're being paid for your companionship. A significant portion of our guests are here for the experience, not the sexual act.”

“Wait, I'm being paid?”

“You will be an employee of Eden Corporation after you sign all your papers, yes. Your job will be to service our paying guests as a Submissive. You'll be matched via our database with Dominants of an equal experience level bound by rigid rules, and you maintain the ability to consent or deny consent to anyone who asks for your services. Consider us a matchmaking service.”

“Okay. I think I got it.”

“Still with me?”

“Yep.”

“For now, I'd like you to look over this sheet and mark down all your hard limits. These are activities you absolutely will not do. Take your time.”

Bucky's hand shook when he reached for the tablet. Somewhere up in the cirrocumulus clouds there was a pseudo-deity laughing their ass off over the predicament he'd gotten himself into. No sex in five years. Got divorced because he was too vanilla and unwilling to explore his sexuality. Now sailing off to the tropics where he was going to get paid to submit to people. If Steve could see him now.

“One thing. You might want to leave that in your room safe if you aren't going to mark down infidelity scenes on your forms.”

He glanced up only to realize Scott was staring at the wedding band around his finger.

“There are guests who like that sort of thing, don't get me wrong. But everyone goes into the scene with transparency and consenting to the situation.”

Taking the ring off felt funny. He hadn't had it off his finger in almost a decade, so pulling it free and stuffing it in his pocket left him feeling naked without its comforting weight. How pathetic could he be? Divorced for five years and he hadn't even taken his wedding band off. Steve had probably sold his before moving on to meet some dashing dame or gent who was worldly enough for him.

The room fell into silence as he continued marking things off his list. Definitely no bodily fluids. He was not into blood letting. No fisting. Hell no on the rectal prolapse. Why would anyone even want to do that? In fact, by the time he finished the worksheet, he was convinced he was the most boring male adult on the planet. No wonder Steve had dumped his ass.

Scott gave him several other forms to fill out. One asked him to mark off the things he would be interested in trying. He agreed to bondage, orgasm denial, forced orgasm, and role playing, and he wound up throwing “pain play” in there just to keep from looking like a complete novice. After all, he needed these people more than they needed him.

After that came a list of rules and regulations Bucky needed to sign. Nothing unusual there. No bare-backing. No exchange of personal information until the end of his stay on the island. No fraternizing with guests outside the rigorous sanctions of the island. No drugs. No smoking. No scene was to be engaged in after alcohol consumption. It all made sense and seemed to offer a healthy environment. Those kinds of infractions were subject to discipline measures up to and including dismissal from the island and termination of contract.

The next section, however, outlined the sorts of behaviors that would land him in a private discipline session with their Master Dom. It included things like practicing unsafe kink that would result in a re-education seminar, and apparently he could ask to be tutored at any time if he felt out of his depths.

By the end of the hour, Bucky felt like his world had been altered but was finally allowed to return to his cabin. He shared a room with a guy named Warren, who was mostly content to lie on his bunk and read from an e-reader. The guy had luscious, blond hair that fanned across the crisp white of his pillow, and was freshly showered by the time Bucky stepped inside. Further proof that Bucky himself had been hit with the ugly stick. Why was everyone around him so attractive?

Warren glanced at him over the top of his reader. “This place is messed up, right?”

“Fucking yeah,” he responded.

“Think it's possible for us to have so much sex we break our dicks?”

“Section E Part Four. We get full medical coverage while working on the island.”

“Have you ever messed around like this before?”

“Shit no.”

“It's my first season, too. My therapist suggested doing something far removed from my normal day job to figure out how to relieve stress. Not sure this is what she was talking about.”

“You some kind of roughneck or something?” Bucky climbed atop his bunk to starfish across the mattress, eyes searching the ceiling tiles above him for the mysteries of the universe.

“No.” A moment of silence passed. Warren didn't expound on the matter. Instead, he asked, “Want me to give you a suck job to break the ice?”

“Dude.” Bucky popped up from the mattress. “We just met, like, four hours ago.”

“Or not. It was just an offer. We are about to embark in a lot of casual sex.”

He was too stunned to speak over the casual offer and considered how he might feel about himself in the morning. Would he feel like he'd cheated on the memory of his marriage? As if Steve Rogers had thought twice about banging somebody else. His ex had probably turned into a huge cum-dumpster after their marriage. After all, he was the one who was oh so adventurous.

“Actually, that would be nice.” It was a snap decision, but he'd better get used to whipping it out for strangers if he was going to be passed around like a party favor for the next three months. “Buyer beware, I haven't been with anyone in a long time. Probably not gonna last.”

Warren rose to his feet, which brought his chin even with the top bunk. He peered at Bucky with the most beautiful cornflower-blue eyes, stepped back, and peeled his shirt off. The man's body was lean and tight, and if Bucky squinted, he could see a touch of Steve in him. Except Warren was taller, probably just over six feet where as Steve lucky to hit five feet four.

Bucky scooted off the top bunk and eased his shirt off. A moment of shyness had him crossing his arms over his chest, but he forced his body to comply and relaxed. His entire left arm was covered with a geometrical series of tattoos, tightly packed hexagons climbing up into a section of thin, vertical lines that transitioned into his bicep. On his bicep existed a series of black panels depicting the progression of a human man sliding through the floor. As he passed through, his human skin was left behind in a puddle of flesh, and he emerged below as raw muscle to huddle, vulnerable, against his inner arm. It then transitioned into realistic plates of armor on his shoulder decorated with a red star.

He wasn't expecting a breath of air to punch out of Warren's chest, nor for the man to ease forward and trace his fingertips over the art panels. “This is amazing work.”

Unease rippled through him, so he stepped back from the touch and reached up to rub away the ghost of Warren's fingertips.

“Sorry,” the man apologized.

“You can touch me anywhere else, but not there.” If he did, Warren would feel the raised ridges and textures of the scars.

His companion's touch moved to safer areas by cupping the side of Bucky's neck and pulling him close until their lips met. It started as a tentative brush. Neither man seemed thoroughly comfortable with human touch, but tension bled away from the kiss when Bucky sagged into the other man's broad chest.

Warren's tongue slipped past his lips for a brief dart. He skimmed a hand down Bucky's arm, encircled his wrist, and lifted said arm up over his shoulder, at which point, Bucky finally sighed into the embrace, the shock of contact between their naked skin. He'd forgotten what it could be like.

A whimper of sound slipped past his control. Finally, his fingers buried into the blonde tresses brushing silken over his knuckles and surrendered himself. He accepted the deepening kiss without the initial trepidation and moaned into Warren's fingers tickling down to the clasp of his pants. Within moments, they pooled around his feet, leaving behind a pair of boxer briefs.

By mutual agreement, they relocated to Warren's bunk without Bucky banging his head where his companion knelt between Bucky's spread thighs.

“The body on you, sweetheart,” Warren murmured, a hand moving up to cup Bucky through his shorts.

Bucky wasn't sure what to do with the praise and ruffled fingers through the other man's hair, painting them down his temple to trace the delicate edge of his jaw. “You ain't so bad yourself.” And Warren was beautiful, with an inner glow that made him look like an angel.

The smirk that played at the other man's mouth sent shivers straight down to Bucky's spine, and he lifted his hips when encouraged to do so in order for Warren to pull his shorts down. His dick was only half-hard. This was all incredibly new territory for him, and the idea of having a stranger's mouth on him wasn't quite enough to make the little soldier drool at attention.

Trepidation snaked up his spine, but he didn't want Warren to stop, felt like he needed this to happen whether or not he was completely into it because he should be like a normal person. He needed to be like a normal person. So he released a soft sound and arched his hips as Warren opened and rolled a condom over his erection. The tight grip of it around him dulled sensation, but he was grateful for the man's forethought. Safe sex wasn't something he'd had to practice for a long time.

Heat replaced trepidation when his companion closed lips around the head of his cock. The man hummed around him, causing all sorts of interesting vibrations that had an effect on the interest of his pecker. It swelled to press against the roof of Warren's mouth, and Bucky found himself rocking his hips higher to press himself deeper, one hand closing on the back of his lover's head.

“Feels good,” he murmured.

And it did. He enjoyed the heat and wet, enjoyed the sloppy sounds of Warren working saliva up and down his pecker but didn't think he could get off this way. His fingers dug gently into the other man's scalp, causing more of those delicious vibrations, just the way Steve had made him feel, the way he'd been instantly ready while looking down at that baby-soft hair and those thin shoulders.

Imagining it was Steve's mouth around him got him the rest of the way to hardness because he had always felt safe around Steve. He'd always felt wanted. He'd always felt attracted to his ex-husband. He fell back against the bed and propped one foot up on the edge, giving Warren enough room to suck his balls before returning attention to the slick, blood-hot cockhead.

“Don't stop,” he said.

Warren didn't. He bobbed his head faster, hollowed his cheeks on the up-swing. His tongue swirled around the head. Faster. The strength of his tongue intensified.

Bucky bowed his back and couldn't withhold the chuffing sounds of release when he came. Strong pulses rippled through his dick as he emptied his balls into Warren's mouth. The aftershocks thundered through him, and spent, he collapsed on the mattress.

“Just gimme a second.”

The corner of Warren's mouth quirked up. He wiped away the drool coating his chin and slithered up to collapse beside Bucky. “Didn't expect you to have quite so much come in you.” Warren indicated the full condom.

Bucky hadn't given head in a long damn time, but Warren said he was fine with a hand job. That was something, at least, that he could do, as he'd been surviving on masturbating for five goddamn years, and when they were done and relaxed, neither bothered snuggling. Just climbed into their respective beds and slept before their next orientation meeting.

At least Warren slept. Bucky turned onto his side to face the wall and couldn't help the silent fall of tears leaking from beneath his lashes. Goosebumps pebbled his skin. He felt wrong down to the core of his body, like mud clogged every pore.

***

There were about a thousand things he could think of that he would rather do than have coffee with Bernard, but when Bernard was your only living family, you swallowed that pill and drank the coffee. It meant his famous laid-back persona had worn thin by the time he got home. Unfortunately, he rented Natasha's basement apartment, so arriving home didn't guarantee him the sanctuary he was craving.

He tossed his remaining socks in the suitcase crammed full with luggage he was taking to Eden and zipped it closed. He wasn't paying attention when the screen door on his walk-up slammed shut, causing him to whip around with a caustic barb on his tongue. It petered out of existence upon spying Nat flopping into his sofa to prop her feet on the coffee table.

Quietly, he went back to what he was doing, intent on ignoring her.

Eventually, she said, “Jumpy today, aren't we.”

He ignored her in favor of padding into his bathroom to grab the rest of his toiletries where he paused to lower his track pants enough to take a leak. Taking a leak standing up still brought tears of joy to his eyes. Sometimes he wondered if that feeling would ever go away. He hoped not.

When he reemerged, his partner was still sitting on his sofa, still watching him, still being incredibly irritating. In her defense, it was Bernard Day, and pretty much everything irritated the fuck out of him. Ignoring her was for the best, so he popped over to grab his travel documents, accidentally unearthing a packet of papers at the bottom of the drawer. His old driver's license fell out. He stared at the photo for long moments trying to find the person he was now in the person he had been then. If only he could go back in time and tell her how much better things would get.

Steps padding up behind him interrupted his thoughts, and he stuffed the ID away before his partner could see. He closed his dresser and spun around to stuff his travel documents in his carry-on.

“Why do you have coffee with him when he pisses you the fuck off?”

“'Cause he's family.”

She picked up a case sitting next to his luggage.

Clint stiffened and tried to ignore the tension. In the end, he couldn't and lurched forward to snatch the case from her hands that he then stuffed in his carry-on. Her brow arched.

“Holy cheese balls, Batman, you're touchy today. What crawled up your snatch?”

“Could you just go upstairs and get your things? Shoo. Get out of my space. Go.” He planted his hands on her shoulders to push her backward out of his room. On any other day, he would know that Natasha was just being Natasha. She never meant anything with her gendered language, but Bernard had been especially awful that day. Clint's chill points had been used up.

A red brow arched. “Okay, Cranky McCrankerson. I'll play along, but we're having words later.”

He wanted to shout that no, they would most certainly not be having words later, but the car pulling up to the curb and honking for them pulled them both out of the track of their conversation. Thankfully, his partner shot him a last lingering look before hurrying through to the shared laundry room and then upstairs to get her shit. Clint, meanwhile, relaxed against the wall of his bedroom.

“Barnie is wrong. Barnie is wrong. Barnie is a fuck-face, and Barnie is wrong.”

The litany was still spilling out of his mouth when they got to the airport and boarded their charted jet from JFK to Honolulu. Eden's private jet awaited them at Honolulu International, and they hunkered down for the four hour flight to the Pacific island of Eden.

First thing he noticed upon stepping onto the tarmac was the warm sun. It spilled around him, kissed his skin, warmed him in ways the New York sun couldn't. The second thing he noticed was-- Well, it wasn't the giant penis statue bedecked with neon lights. There was no giant penis statue bedecked with neon lights. It was how normal the place looked. It looked like any other tropical resort, beautifully appointed, the architecture on the cutting edge of modernity, and the place awash with broad palm trees and thick-leaved ferns.

The buildings were full of glass and clean lines with an abundance of balconies. Green spilled over the edges of those balconies like a magical willow draped in her raiment. Pools dotted the landscape. Across the way perched a golf course and tennis courts. Toward the other end of the island, he could spy a stable and corral filled with horses. It was beautiful, not at all like the den of sex and iniquity he'd been expecting when Fury had first shown them the brochure.

A strawberry blond woman approached, the heels of her shoes pounding like a triphammer against the pavement. She extended a hand toward Natasha first. “Agents Romanoff and Barton, I presume. I'm Pepper Potts, CEO of Eden Enterprises.”

Clint shook her hand after Nat. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am.”

Pepper waved him off. “Pepper will do just fine. Miss Potts if you're a stickler. I bought the company out from under the last person who referred to me as ma'am and left him a sobbing ruin.”

“Pepper,” he corrected.

“It's imperative that our guests know nothing about your investigation, you understand. We cater to a very select clientele, and our discretion is of the utmost concern to them.”

“You needn't worry about that, Potts,” Nat commented. “As soon as we can make contact with our witness, we'll be outta your hair quicker than you can say 'holy rollers, Batman, your dick's gray, son.'”

“Then let's get you settled. Guests haven't started arriving for the season yet, but we've already begun receiving crew arrivals. The only full time employees and residents are our grounds staff, food service, and the upper echelon of our kink masters, our Master Dom and Master Sub, and their assistants.”

Miss Potts turned and alighted inside a Neighborhood Electric Vehicle and patted the seats in the back. “Really, I don't bite. Unless you ask me too.” She went back to looking at her tablet. “Don't worry about your baggage. They'll be delivered to your lodgings.”

Someone may as well have lit a fire under his ass for how quickly he leaped into motion. He hopped up into the rear-facing seats. Turned out his lodgings were located inside a small community of tiny homes clustered in amongst the trees. His in particular was eight hundred square feet and shaped like a rectangle. One end of the rectangle was entirely glass and looked out over a waterfall and splash pool. It was just about the most adorable thing he'd ever seen.

Nat and Pepper left him there to get settled while they went on to the resort where Nat would be staying, but he wasn't afforded privacy for long. He'd just climbed the ladder into the loft containing a full bed when there was a knock at the door. He glanced out to find a guy wearing a bowler hat and twirling his ridiculous mustache, curled up at either end.

He hopped down to answer the door.

“You're the new guy, right?”

“So they tell me.”

“Tim Cadwallader.” He paused so they could shake hands. “I'm in charge of grounds keeping.”

“You're not gonna ask me to get naked, are you?”

“What? God no. You best be keeping your drawers on, son, if you know what's good for you. No, I'm gonna get you started on your duties 'round here, so put your iron underpants on, and let's go.”

He was a thirty seconds too slow.

“Hop to it, Buster--”

“Actually, it's Brian.”

“Did I ask you to interrupt me?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then get your pasty ass strapped in, gird those fuckin' loins, and fall in line, Busker.”

Clint did not make the mistake of correcting Cadwallader a second time. He tugged his boots on and fell in line like this was some kind of goddamn ROTC, and Cauldwell Hatter was the nail-mouthed drill sergeant. God, he had not signed up for this.


	3. When I Get That Feeling, I Want Sexual Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky comes face to face with the ex-husband who hurt him so badly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There's a religious related insult about sexuality in this chapter.

“Oh shit.” 

Bucky's brain translated what he was seeing too late to do anything about it. Across from him existed a raised dais. Upon it sat two thrones. One throne contained a blond woman: tall, strong, immeasurably beautiful. Beside her sat Steve Rogers. Steve-fucking-Rogers. The ex-husband. Because the world was in on some kind of cosmic joke. The poor, pitiful creature being punked? Bucky Barnes.

He ducked in an effort to hide behind the guy in front of him while awaiting his turn to be introduced to the island's royalty only to peek out a moment later. Steve was thin and below average in height, but the man had done some serious sculpting when it came to musculature, clearly delineated by the tight turtleneck Steve wore. He looked regal, with one ankle propped on the other knee and each arm draped casually over the throne's armrest, but there was whipcord strength thinly veiled by a casual demeanor.

His ex-husband wore glasses. All the times Bucky had tried to talk him into getting glasses so as not to irritate the snot out of his eyes with contacts, and the prick finally got a pair after excluding Bucky from his life. The thick frames accented his delicate facial features. His hair was done in an older style with long bangs that occasionally flopped over his forehead to be brushed aside with a flick of a wrist.

Only the Steve he remembered wouldn't have had the patience to sit on a throne and greet each incoming employee with a welcoming expression and an open smile. Since when did Steve Rogers care enough about people as individuals instead of stereotype groups? A Muslim getting harassed? Steve was there to take up for them. The fat kid getting picked on? Steve was right on time to save the day. Some woman being sexually threatened in a bar? Steve was fucking super-defender.

They couldn't go out to a goddamn bar without Steve Rogers raising Hell about treating people with common decency, but ask him the name of their waitress, and he was clueless, too impatient to further the cause of individual freedoms to care about such mundane things. But there he sat like some hot shit greeting everyone by their pseudonyms. Only a handful of people knew everyone's real name.

And Bucky? Bucky was gonna fucking die. He watched the line inch closer to his introduction and attempted to tuck himself behind Warren again, who was broad enough to offer some form of shelter. Alas, it didn't prevent his ultimate humiliation, just delayed it a while, and once it was his turn, the person behind him gave him a shove to get him moving.

He stumbled out onto the carpet and stood, pigeon-toed, in front of his ex. No amount of personal inspiration could make him straighten his shoulders or meet the other man's gaze. The announcer introduced him as the Soldier, which was the first name that came to mind when he'd been asked.

“Jelly Belly?” Steve asked, clearly as thrown by the unexpected catastrophe as Bucky.

Bucky jerked upright and snapped his gaze up to meet Steve's. “Who the Hell is Jelly Belly?” Because how dare that fucker invoke his pet name after he'd served Bucky with divorce papers.

Steve cringed. Then, in a quieter sort of voice, he said, “Soldier.” Watching his ex-husband fight to regain his earlier cool was sort of fascinating, or it would have been if Bucky wasn't now the center of everyone's attention inside the building. Eventually, Steve smoothed his ruffled feathers and indicated Bucky could step aside.

He did.

Like someone had lit a fire under his ass.

Warren met him in the other room with an amused smirk. “Jelly Belly?”

“Shut up.”

“No, I want to hear more about this Jelly Belly. I mean, I've seen your abs. It can't be a nickname to describe the state of your physique.” The other man made eyes at Bucky.

“I don't wanna talk about it.”

“Tough shit. Spill.” Warren added a poke for good measure.

“For fuck's sake, he's my ex-fucking-husband!” He flailed his arms in an attempt to ward off any further poking by his unfortunate choice in friend. “I swear to God. If you poke me one more time, you're gonna be spitting feathers for a month, Angel.”

Warren took a step back and held up both hands in surrender.

A beat of silence passed.

“Your ex-husband, huh?”

Bucky groaned.

Thankfully, Warren wasn't given any further opportunity to annoy the shit out of him, as Scott, whom they were supposed to refer to as Cyke from now on, arrived to escort all the submissives from the intake center. They all climbed aboard a tram piled high with their luggage and found themselves whisked across the island to a round building right on the water. The pie was divided into various slices, the outer crust of each slice containing a balcony with a hot tub and a wall of windows.

Cyke urged them to grab their bags and follow him inside where they were assigned rooms. The building was called The Rookery and only housed submissives. It was off-limits to island guests, providing them a much needed sanctuary away from the people who paid to objectify them.

Bucky muttered something about Sodom and Gomorrah that earned him an elbow jab from Dazzler. She then gave him an earful about the inappropriateness of invoking a religious-based insult given Christianity's Puritan values. He held up his hands in surrender while secretly irritated about being called out. It wasn't his fault his daddy was a pastor and his mama a Sunday school teacher.

Turned out his room was squashed in between Warren's and some guy who went by the moniker Crossbones. The dude was intimidating to look at. He wore a studded collar and enough facial hardware to sink the Titanic: a nose piercing, two on either side of his mouth, an eyebrow hoop, one in each dimple of his cheeks, and about five in each ear with the lowest having stretched his earlobe to a terrifying degree. Between that and the dude's electric blue mohawk, Bucky experienced enough culture shock to restart his heart like a defibrillator.

He flopped his duffel bag atop the bed to unpack before they were hauled off to some kink dungeon for reconditioning. Actually, it was tagged on his itinerary as “remedial training” to bring everyone up to speed on the latest safety practices. He couldn't help but think that maybe they wouldn't need safety practices if people just didn't tie each other up. Or whip each other. Or... Something about kidnapping and rape fantasies. What in the fuck was he doing here?

While identifying himself with the digital room service menu, a warm, British voice suddenly emanated from the speakers. The television screen lit up with the logo J.A.R.V.I.S. “Good afternoon, Mr. Buchanan. Mr. Stark has given me the great privilege of running day to day operations on the island. Messages sent to your room will be stored in my databanks for ease of access, and I am to assist you in navigating the various digital menus available through my servers.”

He plopped his happy ass down at the foot of the bed and listened to J.A.R.V.I.S.' spiel, which involved instructions on operating the system and how the matching database worked. When he was matched with a guest, he would receive a message via Jay that included the various activities requested of him along with forms giving his consent. Jay taught him how to use the menus to order food, watch programming, and access the island's behavior and expectations manuals before moving on to databases filled with lesson plans if help was needed catching up with modern kink practices.

Before he knew it, their lesson was over, and he took a shower. He was just thinking about taking a nap or ordering something from room service when Jay activated the messaging system. “You have one new message, Mr. Buchanan.”

Moments later, Steve's voice emanated from the speakers. “Bucky, we need to talk. My assistant will be by shortly to pick you up and bring you to my office. I realize how startled you must be, but if you're going to work here, we need to figure out if we can work together or if I need to transfer your files to Cyke, who is a switch and can act as your dom.”

Right. Because being summoned to the principal's office was definitely the thing he wanted to do on his first day in La La Land. “Balls,” he huffed.

He scrambled to get ready and refused to admit the length of time he spent in front of his closet deciding between his nice jeans or his casual jeans. Between a band t-shirt or a henley. His glance moved right over the prepackaged outfits designed to use on the island. There was no way anyone wanted to see his happy ass hanging out of those lace panties.

Jay announced Cyke's arrival, so he scrambled into a pair of jeans and a red henley and hurried to open the door. People's Sexiest Man Alive gave him a once-over. If he disapproved, he said nothing and turned with a clipped, “Follow me.”

Bucky scrambled to obey.

Steve's office was located in a private villa behind a series of white walls that afforded privacy to an orchard. Trees were overburdened with a crop of plums. The purple fruit looked delectable, but he pulled his attention away to focus on Steve, who plucked a piece of fruit and brought it to his mouth. The first bite squirted juice down the man's chin. 

It struck him suddenly that his ex-husband looked perfectly at home in the orchard wearing a pair of linen pants and a soft shirt. He couldn't remember a time when Steve seemed comfortable in his own skin, and a wave of relief eased his tension. Being bitter toward his ex didn't mean he wanted the man to suffer. They'd been through too much together to want that.

When he noticed their arrival, Steve beckoned toward an outdoor patio and urged Bucky to sit.

“Thank you, Cyke. You may go now.”

The man hesitated, so Steve's voice took on a harder, more commanding edge. “You may go now, Pet.”

“Yes, Sir.” Watching the transformation in Scott was slightly disturbing. He immediately submitted, posture losing its stubborn edge and sliding into something more softer, a lesser wolf recognizing its alpha and currying favor.

Within moments, they were alone.

Bucky fidgeted with the tablecloth, unsure how to proceed.

“I had no idea,” he finally blurted. “Don't think I followed you here purposefully. I'm not a stalker.”

His ex waved aside the comment. “Of course you didn't know. The resort doesn't advertise the names of its royalty.” Steve huffed and rolled his eyes as though calling himself royalty was the silliest thing. “The thing is that our former relationship puts us at a certain disadvantage.”

“Hey, it ain't gonna be a problem for me. You stay on your side of the island. I stay on mine.”

“It's not so simple as that. As a sub, you are under my jurisdiction. If you require education on being--” His ex paused. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“What?”

“Nothing. If you need correction or education, it falls to me to provide that. Now, I can do my job.”

 _'Because of course it's just a job to you,'_ Bucky refused to say.

“I can do my job with a clear head. We can treat each other professionally. Or I can ask Cyke to perform in that capacity with you. If you're uncomfortable with the sexual nature of what our relationship would be like as one of my subs.”

Bucky felt like he was playing chicken with a train, waiting to see who veered off course first. Hint: It wasn't gonna be him. He'd sooner become a pancake than let on to Steve that he hadn't gotten over their divorce, that Steve's criticisms had at all impacted his self-esteem. It didn't matter if he knew this was a bad, terrible, awful idea; it only mattered that he save face.

So he shrugged. “Sure. Professional. I'm a professional sorta guy.”

“We'll start receiving guests next week. You've listed on your forms that you have very little experience with kink. That means you should spend the rest of the week attending orientation. Cyke and I will be holding a series of refresher courses in the lecture halls at the main resort. You should attend. I would rather you volunteered so your first kink experience isn't with an untrained client.”

“No problem.” He relaxed every muscle in his body. The idea of being handled in front of an audience liquified his insides, but there was something almost exciting about the idea. “I guess I volunteer through Jay?”

“Yes, he can help you.” Steve was quiet for a moment before asking, “Have you been all right? Since the divorce.”

 _'You mean since you told me I was bad in bed and left me?'_ he didn't ask that aloud. Instead, he fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth and responded, “Fine. You know, lots of things keeping me busy. My photography is taking off finally. Got a side job in mechanical engineering.”

“That's good. I'm very glad to hear that.”

Silence.

Steve asked, “Are you still in Gopher Hole?”

“Yep. It's home, you know.”

More silence.

“Bucky, I feel like maybe I said some things--”

“Jesus fuck. Look at the time.” Bucky leaped from his chair. “Promised I'd get some dinner with my cabin mate on the ride over. I should get going.”

“Of course.” Steve got up. “Do you want me to call someone to escort--”

“Nope! I'm sure I can find my way back. It's not like this island's the size of Texas or nothing.”

Bucky made it past the privacy wall at a semi-sedate pace. Once Steve Rogers was out of sight, though, he couldn't stop the fight or flight instinct that sent him careening off toward the staff accommodations. He swore to fuck that if things got intense with Steve, he was swimming off the goddamned. Didn't matter how many sharks were in the area.

XXXXX

Steve's glance remained in the general vicinity of his ex-husband's departure long after he'd lost sight of the man. He still couldn't get over the fact that he was here. The odds that they would bump into each other on this island, which catered to a tiny minority of clientele who were rich enough to afford the service, was astronomical, and God, Bucky still had the power to make his heart beat faster.

Pepper's arrival in an NEV finally dislodged him from the horror-- Was it horror? He couldn't entirely put a name to what he was feeling. Seeing Bucky was good. It also brought back a ton of unresolved emotions left over from their divorce, emotions he hadn't been able to shut down no matter how incompatible they were as a married couple. Ma always said doing the right thing hurt. In this case, doing the right thing by letting them move on with their lives hurt like he'd never imagined.

Rising, he cleared away the tea service and moved to greet his boss with a warm smile. “No Tony today?” Tony was something of a recluse and rarely came out of his inventor's lab.

“Tony is being Tony. If I weren't so independent and enjoyed ample me time, I'd feel like a divorcee.” She folded herself into a chair on the veranda, kicking off a pair of Jimmy Choo heels to tuck her feet beneath her body, skirt pulled down to cover her knees. “But what about you? I hear we have complications with one of our new staff members.”

“No complications.” Heat rushed into the apples of his cheeks and tips of his ears.

She hummed and gave him one of those looks that melted him right to the core, the kind that said California would fall off the continent before he could pull one over on her.

“One of our new submissives is my ex-husband.”

“The ex-husband?”

“Yes. That one.” A beat of silence passed. “Hey! How many times do you think I've been divorced?”

“Well, you are a heart-breaker.”

He huffed.

“Will it be a problem?”

“No. He was just here, in fact.”

“So you're passing him on to Scott?”

“Nope.”

“Steve.”

“He asked me not to.”

Her expression turned pointed.

“He doesn't have any experience with kink.” He sighed. “Pepper. This is the same guy who cried himself to sleep every time we made love. I don't know if he's here because he suddenly discovered his kink side or if this is someone's idea of a cosmic joke, but he doesn't want Scott to dom him. It's the least I can do given the abrupt nature of our divorce.”

“And this won't emotionally compromise you in the slightest.”

“No?” When she greeted his denial with a doubtful look, he straightened his shoulders. “No. Because I can be a professional. This is about being professional. It's not about reestablishing whatever we had five years ago. It isn't gonna be a problem.”

It was totally gonna be a problem. How the Hell was he supposed to be his ex-husband's dom when he still had feelings for him? But refusing to do it meant passing Bucky off to Scott, and that idea sparked sudden, unadulterated jealousy. It made his insides turn green, which was just flat out stupid because it wasn't like Bucky had spent the past five years celibate. Steve sure as shit hadn't.

The whole thing was gonna blow up in his face. Thing was, though, that Bucky Barnes made him crazy, made him not care about the repercussions or the shit-show that would follow. Steve would burn like a phoenix, but at least his ex would come out of the ashes fine. Five years of separation had thoroughly cooled that man's ardor. Steve should have expected that. Love like theirs exploded in fireworks but fizzled quickly.

That was why Steve managed not to swallow his coffee down the wrong tube the following morning upon perusing the day's orientation schedule only to find that Bucky had volunteered for the morning class on practicing safe bondage. He sat in the middle of his living room floor, both fingers curled around a steaming cup of coffee, and giggled like one gone mad.

Scott met him outside the playroom with all the necessary consent forms displayed on his tablet. Bucky had signed off on the waiver, and Steve took a moment to familiarize himself with his ex-husband's hard limits. He was relieved to see humiliation listed there, as he was pretty sure he'd done enough of that during their messy divorce. He peeked through the door to spy the man spinning himself around in the office chair on stage waiting for things to get started.

He donned a microphone pack, pinned the receiver to the collar of his shirt, and asked if Scott was ready. The arranged seating was filled to capacity. A lot of familiar faces waited there, and that helped to settle the surges of adrenaline spiking through his body. Nothing could mask the excitement making his guts quiver. He longed to bring Bucky to heel.

“Welcome,” Steve began. “Today, we'll be demonstrating the practice of safe bondage. Stay hi to our volunteer this morning. We'll call him the Soldier. Soldier, if you'd like to remove your clothing down to your underthings, we'll get started.”

Bucky, ever graceful, rolled to his feet to unzip his jeans and push them down around his ankles.

Steve's mouth, meanwhile, went dry as a bone, forcing him to swallow to get some moisture going. He tore his attention away from strong thighs in order to introduce the traffic light system to check in with one's partner. Green for go. Yellow for slow down. Red or stop. They went over various ways of communicating while gagged, from dropping a bell to shaking the head a few dozen times. The last thing he did was ask for Bucky's code word.

“What's that?” asked his ex-husband.

“It will cue your dominant to the fact that you're becoming overstimulated and need to orgasm. You've listed yours as 'winter.' This is the point where I need to remind all of you that safe words are there for the safety of all participants. You may have heard that people who love each other don't need safe words. You may have read that safe wording shows a lack of trust. Forget that nonsense.

“No dominant should make you feel bad for using your words or taking care of your own needs. Neither should any dom lose so much control that they are capable of whipping yo black and blue without realizing how much danger you're in. That, friends, is flat out abuse, and we don't tolerate here on Eden. Safe, sane, and consensual is our motto here.”

Turning back to the cross, he found his ex standing nearby wearing nothing but a pair of lacy booty shorts that perfectly framed the man's tight ass. He looked positively lewd in the best possible way, and it was at that point Steve realized he'd forgotten how naturally sexy Bucky really was, from the way he smiled nervously around the bottom lip tucked between his teeth to the bush of dark hair at his groin left to grow naturally.

In a bid to save himself, he cleared his throat. “Stand in front of the cross.”

His ex hesitated, glancing between the audience and Steve. That he was nervous was obvious, and for the space of one heartbeat, Steve was terrified this wouldn't work, that Buck wouldn't be able to trust him enough to let go.

Finally, the man complied and positioned himself as requested. Shivers raced down Steve's spine while watching his ex submit to his will. It made heat pool in his stomach and triggered a desire he'd thought long buried, cooled by harsh words during their divorce and irrational accusations.

Scott took over, saying, “Note that Captain is using soft restraints. Never use handcuffs or anything that requires a key that could be lost. Keep your restraints in a kit along with these.” Scott showed the gathering a pair of safety scissors. “In the event you need to be released quickly, you'll want something durable but also easily cut through.”

“You're going to be fine,” Steve murmured while Scott continued speaking behind him. “Relax and breathe through the anxiety. Slow your breathing down for me, Buck.” His ex struggled to do as asked but finally managed to pull in measured breaths. “That's good. Just like that, sweetheart.”

The fact that Steve needed a stool to reach the upper restraints did nothing to his ego. His height was a fact of life, one he'd long become accustomed to. He settled Bucky's wrist into the cloth restraint rigged to the apparatus and buckled him in, one arm after the other. Then he checked Buck's circulation, concerned about how frenzied Bucky's expression was, the way he was unable to rest his eyes on one thing for any length of time.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he said. His palm flattened over Bucky's chest in an effort to ground him. “You're in control here, remember. Use your words if you need them, and it all ends.”

“No, I can do this.”

Hopping down, Steve crouched to strap the man's ankles into an identical pair of cuffs, at which point, he stepped back to admire his work. Seeing Bucky stretched and bared for him did things to his insides, but the demonstration wasn't about turning him on or getting to orgasm. He could be professional. Probably. Maybe. Was a boner professional in his line of business?

Steve turned to address the audience. “Kink isn't always about sex and orgasm. With each new scene, you'll be asked to negotiate the terms of play. That is the point at which you should determine between dom and sub whether orgasm and intercourse are the end goal.

“There is beauty in submission and comfort in the act of giving power of decision making to someone else, and your dom will find beauty and comfort in taking control over you, of deciding what you need, leaving you free to enjoy. Intercourse and orgasm weren't negotiated for this particular scene.”

By the time he returned his attention to Bucky to check in with him, something had changed in his ex's demeanor. The man wasn't struggling to control his breathing. He wasn't shivering. On the contrary, his head rested back against the cross, and there was color kissing the apples of his cheeks. He looked aroused, and wasn't that interesting? That Bucky Barnes would be aroused by being restrained in front of an audience.

He grazed fingers across the other man's arm to give him a visceral reminder of his location, always close by, always murmuring praise and reassurances.

Bucky balked at the idea of being strapped into a harness and demonstrated his willingness to use yellow to slow the scene down.

That accomplishment resulted in more praise. A hard-faced dom shouting orders and reinforcing with pain play was not what his ex-husband needed for his first foray into BDSM. Steve was glad to be gentle with him, and eventually, the other man submitted, Steve looping wide straps beneath each of Bucky's thighs and sliding a sturdy hammock portion behind him to support the man's back.

Once the harness was secured in place via chains and carobiner clips, Steve raised the sling into position over a padded table. Bucky's weight sagged into the supports, and he knew the moment the man gave in, the moment he allowed his head to fall backward and sensation to overtake him.

Steve climbed up to lie on the table beneath his ex-husband to demonstrate the capabilities of using the swing in kink. The fact that Bucky's exposed ass, cradled only by minuscule lace, brushed his crotch had no bearing whatsoever on Steve ending the lesson there. None at all. Maybe, like, twelve percent of an influence in his choice to stop there for the morning.

He was so gonna die.


	4. I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint is too sexy for his shirt, and Bucky is a complete and utter mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably have mentioned this at the start of this project, but this story will contain a lot of religious undertones and explore the effects of religion on people's sexuality. Religion is a very sensitive subject to a lot of people, and I am going to contradict a lot of religious teaching. I also support everyone's right to believe whatever they want to believe, so if you're disturbed by these types of discussions, you should probably bail on this chapter especially, as we really start exploring Bucky's experience with his religious parents and how it's affected his ability to have sex.

It was crazy how much he'd taken as a fact of life before finally having top surgery. The first was that he'd never go topless outside. Technically, going topless in New York was legal for people with breasts. There were no ordinances on the books against it. However, cops still had a nasty habit of arresting people displaying their breasts for other charges. Like disorderly conduct.

So Clint had developed a thing about going topless. He hesitated to call it a phobia; it was more like trepidation. Then top surgery had left him scarred, and it had taken time on T to develop enough pectoral muscle to even consider taking his shirt off. It was a whole holy mess.

The victory, though, came on Eden while out trimming the hedges. Bright, Pacific sunshine crisped his head and neck to fine a gold. Finally, he paused long enough to shrug from his shirt, stuffing it in his back pocket, at which point, he glanced down at himself. A little smile tugged his mouth. There were still faint scars beneath his well-defined pecs, but they were light enough that sunshine and shadow made them all but impossible to see. He straightened his shoulders and picked up the pruners again.

Naturally, that was when Nat came around the corner and startled him. He yelped, nearly clobbering himself in the face with his tools when he flailed. Then he fastened an unamused look on his features.

“I hate when you do that.”

“What?”

“Sneak around like you're some kind of ninja. Stop it.”

“One could wonder why you're jumpier than a Jack-in-the-box.”

“Yeah. Well. One could wonder why your face looks like a Boston Terrier.”

“Well, that's just not true, Hoppy Hopperson, so you're lying. Or you need glasses.” She leaned forward a few inches to give him a better look. “Do you need glasses?”

Clint squeaked and crossed his arms over his chest upon realizing Nat was checking him out. “My face is up here, Natasha.”

A beat of silence passed.

Nat asked, “You made eyes on Barnes yet?”

“Nope. You find anything?”

“No one named James Barnes is registered as working on this island.”

“Just means he's working under a false identity. He has so much blacked out of his military files that I wouldn't put it past him to have been spec ops. Spec ops guys know how to disappear if they want.”

Silence.

“You would tell me if there was something you needed to tell me, Papi. Wouldn't you?”

“Yes?”

“That answer doesn't sound terribly sincere.”

“There's nothing I need to tell you.”

“We are partners, after all. Partners should tell each other things.”

Clint waved off the comment and had never been so relieved as he was when Tim rounded the garden path looking particularly fussy that morning. The bright copper of his hair was flattened in a case of very bad hat-head, and he paused to take a drag from a well-loved cigar.

“Buttons--”

“Brian. My name is Brian. B-R-I-A-N.”

Tim snapped his fingers a couple of times. “Housekeeping's running behind getting the rooms up to snuff for the inbound guests and need a bit of a hand. Be a good lad and run down to the supply building to fill this list.” He waved a bit of paper in the air.

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

“Make sure Wanda gets those supplies. Miss, you're in the wrong part of the island. You should head back to your dorm for the day's orientation classes. You a dom or a sub?”

Nat cocked one hip out and rested a delicate hand there. She murmured something about not being S.H.I.E.L.D's welcome wagon this time before flouncing off to head back to her side of the island. Technically, she wasn't even supposed to be there yet. Guests didn't arrive for another week.

“Snap to it, Son. Housekeeping don't got all day.”

Clint snapped off a smart salute before handing his pruners to Tim and taking off for the main housekeeping hub where he commandeered an NEV. The fact that he didn't immediately pull his shirt back on said something profound about how far he'd come from the days of shame, he was sure. It was a good thing, though, that he didn't look at the list until he'd arrived at the storage building.

He used his thumb print to gain access to the building. The soft buzz of overhead lights combined with the darkened interior gave him a bad case of the Jurassic Parks. Ellie Satler had gone down into a dark labyrinth, after all, to reboot the systems. Of course, she'd also almost been eaten by raptors. He hoped to avoid that fate if at all possible.

He entered Sex Mecca instead. Or rather, a large room stuffed to the brim with wholesale boxes filled with condoms and lube. That was when he glanced down to peruse his list.

“Three boxes of condoms. Assorted sizes. Four boxes of lube. Assorted flavors. Five boxes of hypoallergenic nitrile gloves. Assorted sizes. Three boxes of dental dams. Silicone variety. Two boxes of finger cots. Nitrile. I am on an island. That specializes in sex.”

Which was when it dawned upon him that he hadn't had sex in a really long time. Sure, he'd jerked off. He had a new dick—it had actually been two years—and everything. Needed to take it for a test spin. That didn't mean he'd been comfortable enough with his new body to actually engage in sex with other people. Not for lack of wanting, though. It was just hard to get back on the horse when you were worried no one could look past Chleo Barton to find Clint Barton. There was a reason he preferred to watch situations from above, removed from the people around him.

Being surrounded by all the sex paraphernalia just served to remind him how taboo the act had become, so he threw himself into transporting boxes of supplies back up to his waiting vehicle. When he had everything loaded, he drove back to housekeeping to unload and met a woman named Wanda.

And good grief, she was gorgeous. He saw her standing outside having a smoke with a man about the same age who had a shock of white hair. The sunlight behind her set her hair ablaze with red highlights, and she grasped a few wispy strands that threatened to blow across the burning ember of her cigarette. The light also shone through her gauzy skirt to outline shapely legs.

He unloaded the first box. “Where do you want these?”

“Hello. Thank you for helping.” Her accent was vaguely Slavic.

“No problem-o. Where should I put them?”

A soft smile touched the corners of her mouth. She passed her cigarette off to a man whose name tag introduced him as “Pietro” before leading Clint inside and suggesting he put the boxes on a counter.

“You are new,” she commented.

“Yeah. First season. But I'm not part of the sex stuff. Um-- Not that there's anything wrong with the—uh—sex stuff. You know. To each their own.”

Her laughter was the sound butterflies would make if their wings made sound. “There is no need. You are Brian from grounds keeping?”

“Hey, you got my name right!”

Her brow knit together in a look that communicated her uncertainty about whether she was being made fun of or not. “I was not aware your name was hard to pronounce correctly.”

“No!” Then, with less force, “No, your pronunciation was impeccable. There just seems to be a rash of name-calling going around. I'm either Papi or Hoppy or Buttons and Bows.”

“This is my brother, Pietro.”

Pietro saluted him with his cigarette. “You wanna help me in the bar next?”

“Sure?”

“Pietro is a flair bartender. You should come to one of his shows sometime.”

“A flair bartender.” He was from Knoxville, Tennessee, not Paris.

“Juggling with bar tending implements and liquor bottles,” Pietro responded.

“I'll have to see that sometime.”

It was at the bar when he got his first glimpse of who he thought might be James Barnes. The guy's shoulders were about the right width, and his hair was the same dark chestnut, pulled into a messy ponytail at the back of his head, but there was no way to be sure without shouting the guy's name. He tailed the man for about ten minutes before losing him in the mess of people enjoying their evening off at the local watering hole.

The bar was also where some asshole grabbed Clint's dick and suggested they should maybe go back to his place. Having a stranger grab your crotch would make anyone antsy, and he wasn't proud to admit he kneed the guy in the balls for daring to get fresh with him. If he got written up for getting physical, well, he supposed it just meant he got written up.

XXXXX

Bucky probably had a few too many beers to be considered sober enough to consent, but the earlier confusion from having responded to being tied up in front of an audience had left him feeling unsettled in his own skin and maybe a bit desperate to feel normal. Ultimately, it meant that when Crossbones rubbed up against him and suggested they take it back to his suite, Bucky agreed. 

He hadn't done anal with anyone but Steve, so when the guy tried, he was at least sober enough to redirect his lover. In Brock's defense, he was cool about it and snuggled up behind Bucky to place his cock between Bucky's thighs instead of inside his ass. There was something nice about it, a solid person behind him, a hard cock moving gently between the muscles of his thighs and occasionally bumping against his balls, and a scarred hand around his dick, pumping in time with the intercrural sex. It wasn't nearly as exposing. He didn't feel as vulnerable as he would have, so he leaned into the man's bulk and enjoyed the experience.

Images from that morning kept coming back, the feeling of Steve's strong hands on his hips, the way the audience had watched him, had seen something in him to hold their attention. Voyeurism wasn't a kink he'd ever thought about before, but being watched did something for him. For whatever reason.

A soft moan escaped when Brock's thumb traced around the head of his cock, and he reached between his own legs to greet his partner's slick head with little circles of his fingers that caused shuddering sounds behind him. Brock sped up. The man's lips brushed against Bucky's neck. Every time one of his lover's piercings grazed his skin, he felt a little shock of electricity.

Then he was coming over Brock's fist, and Brock was coming into a condom.

Brock didn't stick around after, something he found immensely relieving. He hated the post-sex awkwardness that usually happened. How did you leave it? Did you thank someone for a good time? Did you give them a peck on the lips at the door? Skipping that step cast a better light on the evening, but he still went to to clean up thinking about Steve and how sex with Steve had at least never left him feeling so detached, a ship adrift on the ocean.

For about half an hour afterward, he thought he may have escaped feeling like shit, but it crashed down upon him while looking in the bathroom mirror at his stubble-rough cheeks. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to ignore the phantom voices filled with righteous fury screaming 'It is better that Lot give unto the mob his own daughter than to allow the abomination of Sodom and Gomorrah to lust after God's angels' and 'The man who lays with a man like he would a woman is condemned to the lake of fire' and 'You are no son of mine' and 'This is for your own good, Jimmy.'

The next thing Bucky knew, he was curled up in the bathtub with tears and snot dripping off his chin, a handful of used toilet paper clutched in a fist. Part of him thought it would be better to never know anyone's touch again than to suffer the fall-out that ruined any relaxation brought by orgasming. 

Sleep didn't come easily that night. Tension turned him into a corpse stiffened with rigor mortis, his body imprisoned by a growing sense of dread. There was his father's disappointed face, his mother's look of horror, and behind them, a monster of their own making looming with bull's horns and red skin, something coughed from the pit of Hell to drag him into eternal damnation. He yanked the blanket over his head out of some desperate instinct to hide. If he hid, the devil wouldn't find him.

Dawn did come eventually, but things didn't much improve in the light of day. Last night's panic chased him out of bed. He was so distracted upon flying from his room that he nearly tripped over a package sitting in front of his door. Looking both ways, he finally bent to scoop it up and inspect the shipping box. A tag addressed it to him.

Some part of him feared an explosive device, so when he settled it across the foot of his bed, he cringed backward for a few moments. Finally, he sliced through the tape and parted the top flaps to peer inside. Nestled in amongst packing peanuts and hidden behind a protective cover rested a vintage Gibson Nineteen Fifty-Three acoustic guitar. Light made the body of the guitar gleam.

Breathless, he grazed fingertips across the strings. The last time he'd picked up a guitar had been back before his discharge from the army. Used to be he was never far from one. He could remember lounging around base during down time playing songs for his squad, but he'd pawned his old model to keep up with bills post-divorce and had never replaced it. What was the point when playing hurt too much, when it brought back memories of nights spent serenading Steve?

The guitar had to have cost ten grand, but with no return address and no way of knowing who'd purchased it, he couldn't very well send it back. He couldn't even send a note thanking the purchaser for thinking of him. It was slightly unsettling. Steve was his first suspicion, but why the Hell would Steve be buying him a ten thousand dollar guitar?

Eventually, he lifted it free of the shipping box, settled it across his knees, and strummed a few chords. It was badly out of tune, so he spent a few moments tightening the strings until the notes resonated beautifully from the guitar's body. Playing again felt good, and some selfish part of him decided not to pursue trying to find a way to send it back.

Decision made, he ducked from his room and turned up at the buffet breakfast where he poured a mug of coffee from the percolator and found a seat. He sauntered to an empty table and plopped down to enjoy the ridiculously massive sticky bun he'd selected for breakfast in peace and quiet. Warren showed up later. The man looked worse for wear, clearly hungover from a night of drinking.

“Where did you run off to last night?”

“Back to my own room--”

“Boring,” interrupted Warren.

“--to have sex with some guy.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“Not if you know what's good for you.”

“Sometimes I feel like this relationship is one-sided, Buddy.”

That caused Bucky to glance sharply toward the other man.

“Hey. Chill. I'm just yanking your chain. Not some kind of stalker who thinks he owns you 'cause I gave you a blow job. It was a pretty epic blow job, though.”

“It was okay.”

“Now I really am offended.”

“It's possible I'm not your target audience.”

Warren raised a brow to ask for an explanation.

“There's a word for what I am. It isn't like I keep track of these things. Pretty sure whatever the word is, it means sex isn't really my thing unless it's with someone I've really bonded with. Sure, it feels okay to get off. I could just take it or leave it.”

“There is a word for that. Look up demisexual some time.”

Bucky huffed an acknowledgment around the rim of his mug and cataloged the terminology for later study. Not that he really needed to define what he was, but it would be so much easier to proclaim himself a one word category than to explain the whole shebang to an interested third party.

Eventually, a desperate giggle escaped, a bubble of laughter that drew his companion's glance. Here he was on a sex island surrounded by a bunch of horny people, and he was somewhere on the spectrum of asexuality. Worse, he couldn't even orgasm without feeling degraded.

Frustration boiled away inside the cauldron of his stomach. He was so fucking frustrated all of a sudden. Frustrated and mad as Hell. Because his parents had stolen something from him. They had turned him into this monster who couldn't even get off without feeling ashamed.

A frustrated Bucky was a dangerously pig-headed Bucky who had to prove to himself he was normal at all costs. He said, “I gotta go. Signed up to demonstrate for something called Shibari. Cyke says I gotta be there early for scene negotiations.”

“So you're just randomly signing up for these things and have no idea what they are?”

“Yep! Kinda how I decide which pizza place to order from. Tack up the yellow pages for pizzerias and throw darts at it. Whichever one I hit is the lucky winner.”

“You're a mess.” There was fondness in the other man's tone.

Bucky stopped and offered Warren a sarcastic smile and double finger guns. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Once he arrived in the kink room where he was meeting Steve, he flopped down to sip from his coffee and await his ex-husband. The man arrived promptly. As usual. You could set your watch by that fucker's punctuality. He managed a smile from behind his mug and couldn't stop from squirming.

Steve looked incredible. Again. All slim muscle and svelte grace. The man took a seat across from him, trying for a smile that existed on the border of failure. “We're gonna work on Shibari today. Do you know what that entails?”

“I'm guessing you're gonna be tying me up.”

“Something like that.” He passed across a photo of a woman who was bound up in ropes, the knots creating beautiful patterns across her skin. “It's Japanese rope art.”

“Should be fine. Same rules apply as the bondage portion?” After Steve agreed, Bucky scratched absently at his knuckle, dredging up the courage to play high-stakes chicken with kink. “Is it appropriate-- For fuck's sake, saying it to your face is worse than saying it in my head.”

“Remember that communication is essential for a safe and consensual kink relationship.”

“I want to do that thing where we talk about orgasm.”

“You want to negotiate for orgasm in this scene?”

“Yeah, that.” Good Christ, his face was gonna catch on fire.

“You'll be in front of an audience.”

“Don't care.”

If anyone asked, Bucky wouldn't be able to remember much about the actual negotiation part. What mattered was the agreement that Steve would make him come at some point during the session. Somewhere along the way, he'd convinced himself that if Steve could make him orgasm in front of an audience, it would prove to himself he wasn't permanently broken. Plus, he was a greedy fucker and would use any excuse necessary to feel Steve's hands on him again.

This was so going to blow up in his face. He absolutely didn't care.

That was how Bucky found himself on stage in front of the rest of the submissives. He stripped down to his lacy panties and went onto both knees before Steve, hands tucked carefully behind his back while his ex-husband presented the lesson.

At first, the waiting irritated the fuck out of him. He wanted to get on with it. The anticipation roiled away inside his guts, but after a while, he realized that waiting was part of the game. The longer Steve took to yammer on about circulation, the more his skin tingled with awareness. Numerous eyes ghosted over him and brought his nerve endings to life. 

By the time his ex positioned him on the padded table, he could feel goosebumps prickling his skin. He allowed himself to relax, to breathe into the moment the way Steve had coaxed him to do last time only to startle from the graze of soft nylon against his skin. He settled quickly, melted into the feeling and didn't make a sound when Steve started winding beautiful red rope around his bicep.

It was tantalizing. The occasional brush of skin against skin. The quiet zip of the rope's fiber being pulled into knots as Steve worked ladder patterns down his biceps and onto his forearm. Then, Steve bent his elbows and attached another rope between those on his bicep and forearms to keep his arms bent in that position, leaving his hands to rest against his chest.

And for a while, he forgot. About his audience, about last night, about everything that mattered. Blue ropes came next, wound and knotted around his feet, one coil wrapped around each big toe. Those knots were quickly completed, and his ex urged him onto his side.

He wasn't sure at first what the other man's ultimate goal was, but eventually, Steve bent him backward at the waist and attached his feet with his arms via snow-white rope. It left his body extended, chest thrust forward, unable to curl into a fetal position and hide the core of his body.

“Comfortable?”

“Hmm?” He roused himself enough to look up at Steve. “Yeah. Green.”

More rope tickled around his groin and middle, and he allowed himself to ghost the outer edges of his own awareness. The world existed. People watched him. Maybe some of them even admired the cut of his body. He was part of that world but intangible in a way that allowed him to dissociate from the memories haunting him. It left him feeling pleasantly out of body.

Steve finished creating a harness around the trunk of his body. The way the ropes criss-crossed, intermingled, it was a beautiful pattern in a way Bucky hadn't really noticed before, the play of colors soothing. Both sets of ropes were then gathered and woven into thick cordage, and Steve grasped the overhead chain to clip the ropes into a carabiner clip. 

A winch lifted him from the table and positioned him so that his knees skimmed the padding, allowing him just a sliver of grounding. Gravity pulled his head backward to expose the long column of his throat. Between the audience watching him and having the choice taken away, he couldn't help the swell of comforting emptiness and allowed himself to slide into it.

“Check in with me, Soldier. You doing all right?”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Green.”

“Look at you, sweetheart.”

Bucky was vaguely aware of his cock twitching when his ex called him 'sweetheart.'

“You like that, huh? Like being called sweetheart?” The silence in the room was womb-like. “What else do you like? It's all right. You can talk.”

He licked his lips. “Like people seeing. Don't know why.”

“S'all right. You don't have to know why, Jelly Belly.”

Electric need arched through his nerve endings when Steve's bare palm touched his chest, when it swept down in pursuit of the trail of hair leading toward his groin. It was like Steve swept away the rest of Bucky's unshed snake skin, the little furls of dried skin that clung between his scales.

“I'm gonna get rid of these now, okay?” Steve fingered the lace of his panties. 

Safety scissors snipped away the fabric of his underwear, and his cock sprung free. It rested along his belly, fat and swollen, the head flushed a pretty pink. A drop of pre-come glistened as it rolled down the underside to nestle against his balls, and it felt good, so fucking good.

“Tell me what you want.”

The demand brought him rushing back into awareness in an attempt to judge his own reactions. “I don't know.” Frustration danced along the edges of his consciousness. “I don't fucking know, okay.” His breathing quickened.

“Soldier, I need you to stop and breathe for me, okay? Concentrate on relaxing your muscles. You need to slow your breathing down. What's your color?”

He did as Steve suggested in an effort to calm down. He pulled in several deep breaths and focused on preventing the buzz of something discordant deep in his chest.

“Tell me your color, sweetheart.”

“Green.”

It wasn't green. It was yellow at best but like Hell was he admitting to that when he was in the middle of the situation. Like Hell was he proving right every bad thing Steve had ever said about his inability to experience sex like a normal person. The susurrus audience ceased being a comfort. They became the murmur of a congregation in prayer. They became George Barnes' wail of righteous fervor denouncing sex and self-pleasure, denouncing the abomination of homosexual sin.

“Red,” Steve suddenly said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really love to interact more with the fandom, so come visit me on [Tumblr](http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/)


	5. I Wanna Take A Ride On Your Disco Stick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nat goes snooping where Clint doesn't want her to while Bucky and Steve face the fall-out of their failed scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Steve remembers a time when Bucky and he were called homophobic slurs.

Steve was concerned enough about Bucky's unresponsiveness that he used safety scissors on the ropes instead of taking the time to unwind them. Scott, meanwhile, cleared the room to give them a modicum of privacy and called for a doctor in the event something medical had gone wrong. It took about three minutes for Dr. Wilson to arrive.

It took Steve three and a half minutes to cut the restraints and arrange Bucky's body in a comfortable position, at which point, he massaged each joint and chafed palms across skin to stimulate blood flow. All the while, he clutched tightly at the reins of his control, panic bubbling just beneath the surface.

Dr. Wilson took over, pulled a pen light from his pocket, and checked the reaction time of his patient's pupils. By the time he took Bucky's pulse and blood pressure, the patient finally started coming around, rapid eye movements followed by a soft groan of sound.

“'M fine. Jesus Christ, stop making such a fuss,” the other man murmured.

Steve ground his teeth but didn't lay into Bucky while there was a possibility he wasn't fine. Rather, he stood off to the side and tried to deal with the hot pulse of anger flowing as molten lava through his veins. It was a familiar feeling, one he'd thought buried beneath icy control.

Dr. Wilson's was satisfied by Bucky's answers and draped his stethoscope around his neck. “You're a little dehydrated, but I think we're dealing with a panic attack. The shortness of breath and chest pains sound like a severe reaction to anxiety. You need to get some rest, get yourself hydrated, and find a way to process your stress that doesn't involve alcohol or drugs.”

“I'll rest when I'm dead.”

“Bucky, I swear to God--”

His ex said, “I'm fucking fine. You heard the doc. Panic attack. Not dying.”

“Fine?” Steve snapped. “You were unresponsive!” There went his temper slipping right past whatever control he'd managed to cultivate. “You were supposed to safe word. Why didn't you safe word?”

Bucky slid off the table and grabbed for the clothes Scott proffered. “Here we go again.”

“What?”

“Steve and his melodramatic overreacting where everyone's concerned but him.”

“Overreacting? How dare--”

“Steve, go get a cup of coffee,” Sam interjected.

“I don't want a cup of coffee.”

Bucky muttered something far too low for Steve to hear with his bad ear.

“What did you say?”

His ex geared up for a tirade with a deep breath. “I said that it's just like you to think you know what's best for everyone else when you refuse to bleed on anyone. Always fucking expected me to believe it when you said you were fine. Could be bleeding on the goddamn floor, and you were fine. Just once in your goddamn life, why couldn't you just tell me what was wrong instead of making me worry? But no, the minute I try being evasive, you turn on the fireworks.”

“At least I'm not a repressed—”

Scott grabbed Steve's arm to haul him from the dungeon, effectively interrupting his comment.

“And at least I didn't divorce you because you were too vanilla in bed!” his ex shouted after him.

Steve grabbed the door jam on the way past. “That is not what I freaking said, you asshole. That is not why we divorced. Jesus Christ, what do you take me for? Heartless?”

Scott finally got the better of him, but just before they disappeared around the corner, he heard Bucky snap “useless prick” into the hollow silence that followed them.

Steve flinched. His ex-husband's ability to go right for the kill was one of Bucky's worst flaws. He knew right where to cut a person so the most damage would be done, and that man's unerring accuracy meant he could leave napalm in his wake. To be considered useless brought back all those memories of his long illness growing up. Only Bucky would know how much that would hurt.

His companion didn't say anything until they were inside Steve's bedroom in the resort building, at which point, Scott made tea, the man's willowy body moving with unearthly grace.

The quiet clink of tea cups and rattle of the serving tray helped restore Steve's calm. Better still was Scott serving the tray and sinking onto his knees beside Steve's chair on a pillow, head bowed in submission, body quiet.

Steve grazed fingers through his submissive's cinnamon hair and found the calm.

“What happened, Sir? I've not seen you lose control that quickly before.”

“Bucky Barnes has this special way of getting under my skin. I thought I could teach him and remain impartial, but it's pretty obvious that was a fool's dream. It would be best if you took over his training.”

“Whatever you need, Sir.”

“You're too good to me, baby doll.”

He started pushing Scott's head aside with every intention of going about his day. Instead, the other man clasped his knuckles to press them against Scott's cheek. There was no stubble there, just the silk of his submissive's skin, just the intimate blush of color in the other man's cheeks.

“That's not the way I see it, Sir.” Soft lips brushed Steve's fingertips. “My wife used to call me a control freak. Did you know that? I had to control everything or else I didn't feel safe. Sometimes it felt like my entire world would unravel at a moment's notice. Sir, you helped me learn how to feel safe. You helped me let go of my too-tight grasp and saved my marriage.”

Steve kissed the crown of the man's head.

“Get up.” His tone took on a harder edge.

Scott stood without complaint.

“Take your clothes off.”

His submissive complied.

“Bend yourself over my desk and spread yourself for me.”

Scott did.

Steve rolled to his feet and opened a nearby cabinet where an array of toys were organized. He selected a red butt plug, Jean's favorite color, and a packet of lube. Then, returning to his desk, he smoothed both hands up Scott's sculpted back, feeling the twitch of muscle and the heat of the man's body beneath his fingers.

Tearing open the packet of lube with his teeth, he went about coating his fingertips. They dipped down between Scott's cheeks and left a trail of moisture in their wake. Scott tensed and relaxed. The man's cock fattened up between his legs, and Steve pressed two fingers against the man's hole.

“I'm going to touch you here,” Steve whispered.

“Please, Sir,” the other man responded.

Two slippery fingers penetrated the tight clutch of Scott's body, seeking the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden there. He knew the moment he found the man's prostate by the way Scott's spine curved. The small of his back dipped, and his ass arched toward the ceiling, making a stunning display.

“There? Is this where you want me?”

“Fuck. Yes. Please, Sir.”

He massaged that spot in gentle circles, watched with fascination as goose bumps raced up the other man's skin, reveled in the way his submissive's hot core contracted around his fingers, the way Scott threw his head back and keened. The touch was just enough to bring Scott right to the edge. The man's balls tightened. His thighs began to tremble. He hovered right on the edge.

Steve removed his fingers.

Scott cursed and came up on his tiptoes, his ass seeking the completion Steve had denied him.

Instead, Steve coated the plug with lube and pressed the tip against his submissive's entrance. A gentle push was all it took to sink the toy into his body. Scott's hole stretched around the widest part only to clutch the stem, sound falling away but for the other man's ragged breathing.

Once the flared base settled comfortable between the other man's cheeks, Steve stepped back to wipe his hands free of lube, returning once more to the untouchable cool of a man utterly comfortable in the control he wielded like a plaything.

“Stand up.”

Scott stood.

“Lay out a change of clothing for me.”

Washing his hands while he listened to the bustle of his submissive moving around his room allowed him time to switch gears from Steve the dominant to Steve the squishy human. But it was clear the play Scott had instigated had done its job. He no longer felt the molten rush of anger and was able to smile at his companion when the man finished laying out clothing.

“Get dressed.”

Scott got dressed.

“Take the rest of the day off and spend some time with your wife. She'll enjoy my present.”

“Sir? Are you sure you don't need me?”

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

A tiny smile crept onto the man's mouth. “No, Sir.”

He waited until he was alone to bury fingers in over-long tendrils of hair. Part of him still felt sick from the moment he'd realized Bucky wasn't in a good place. Nausea continued roiling in the cauldron that was his stomach, so he padded into the bathroom to chew a couple of Tums.

Said cabinet taunted him. More to the point, various bottles of medications contained therein taunted him, but he squared his shoulders and set out the necessary prescriptions. Anti-inflammatories for arthritis. A 40 mg injection of Humira for Crohn's. Vitamins to help his diseased digestive system absorb more than he could eat, and probiotics to maintain a good floral load in his guts.

His Crohn's was presently in remission thanks to starting a biologic. It had been a hard fought battle to get there with a childhood full of sickness. Either his immune system had tried eating his digestive tract or secondary complications caused by heavy doses of steroids had driven him to the point of madness. He hadn't kept track of the amount of colon he'd lost from various surgeries to remove tissue that was too damaged to function or to repair perforations.

Bucky, whom he'd known since kindergarten, had been there for all of it. Every hospital stay, each day of missed school, each time he hadn't made it to the toilet quickly enough. The man had been there through every flare, every failed date, and for every evening he hadn't been able to contemplate having sex because he was too busy huddled under a blanket with fever chills or too exhausted to move.

He supposed that once his gastroenterologist had finally found the magic combination that had sent the disease into remission, he'd rejected everything that had once been a sign of his former helplessness. His libido had recovered, and with Bucky's issues with his own sexual identity, it had been hard exploring himself while still staying within his husband's comfort zone.

Then there'd been the anger. His temper had always gotten the best of him, but a lifetime of being riddled by disease hadn't prepared him for controlling it. He'd been bitter and keen to prove himself a man. Once he'd had the physical strength to stand up for himself, he'd gone too far in the opposite direction and turned into a street brawler. 

That had led to an assault and battery conviction carrying a three year prison sentence. His victim hadn't been some helpless weakling. The guy had been at a bar the same time Bucky and Steve had been on a date. They'd dared kiss in front of him. He'd made his displeasure known over having to see 'a couple of fags pawing at each other.' Steve had seen red.

His husband had begged him to let it go, and God, he'd tried. He'd tried walking away. Up until the asshole'd pushed him too far by suggesting they were freaks who were gonna go to Hell. Given Bucky's history with his parents, it had been a comment Steve hadn't been able to ignore. 

Three years in prison had done nothing for his attitude problem. The anger had still been there after his release, compounded with a heap of bitterness and almost eleven hundred days spent fighting for his position in a prison culture that hadn't been friendly to little guys like him. Living with his guard up for that long had taken its toll on both of them.

Bucky's issues had gotten worse. Steve had become less patient. And three years of separation had seen them emotionally drifting apart. His husband had been keen to make a go of rebuilding their relationship, but he'd been eager to strike out on his own and finally live unencumbered by debilitating sickness and emotional instability. The fighting had gotten worse. He'd run out of reasons to stay.

At the time, he'd honestly thought Bucky would be better off. The guy had spent his entire life bouncing between his parents' controlling attitudes and having someone else dependent on him. He'd thought his ex would finally get to live his life without being tied down to an emotionally charged situation, especially when Steve's sexual tastes had out-paced his ex's ability to cope with his sexuality.

He'd wanted the best for his ex-husband, but he'd just ended up hurting him more.

Splashing water on his face helped clear the tension from a failed scene, and he went back to his desk to fill out paperwork. Later, he would call Sam and check on Bucky. Once his ex was released from medical custody, they would have a talk about why the scene had gone wrong, and he'd inform his ex that Scott would be working with him for the remainder of his employment.

XXXXX

Clint's heart thundered. He pulled in several deep breaths in an effort to calm his nerves, but nothing prevented his hand from dampening with sweat. Nat was standing in his tiny home. Nat was standing in his tiny home with the packet containing his travel documents. His passport and ID listed him as Clint Barton. Changing those had been easy enough, and once he'd had his passport, it trumped most other documents. His birth certificate, however, still contained his birth sex.

Naturally, she was holding his birth certificate.

“Tennessee won't let you change the sex information on your birth certificate,” he said.

She hummed.

It did nothing to help the tension snapping him taut. “Say something.”

“We should have pancakes for lunch. Do you want pancakes for lunch?” Nat tucked the documents back into their folder and returned them to the wall safe before strolling toward the front door. She paused to look back at him. “Well, are you coming or not, Bibbity.” A beat of silence. “Oh God, you're gonna make me share feelings aren't you.” She straightened her posture. “Okay, go.”

“You don't-- Aren't you gonna react at all?”

“Can I see your penis?”

“What? No!”

“I just don't see what the big deal is, Bobbity. You were a dick before I found out. You're a dick after I found out. And for the record, you coulda told me. You know, since it's been bugging you.”

“We work in a precinct. It's like coming out as gay in a firehouse. You really think everyone else woulda been cool with it?”

“Doesn't matter,” she responded, looking for all the world like they were discussing the number of flies trapped on a fly strip. “Only matters what you think about it.”

A moment of silence passed.

“That's easy for you to say.”

She let it drop with a shrug, thank fuck, and he pulled the door closed behind them to lock up. Clint ducked behind her when they passed a fenced in back yard where the sun reflected like an LED light off Tim's naked chest. That guy was the very definition of a farmer's tan, all white torso and ass bracketed by sun-baked arms. Also? He was getting really wigged out by that man's ability to call him everything but his cover name.

They made their way to the staff cafeteria and stepped inside. Air conditioning brought instant relief from the Pacific humidity, and his eyes required a moment to adjust to the dim interior. Someone called his name. He glanced around to find Wanda and Pietro lounging at a table and beckoning to him, so he made his way across to steal a seat beside them.

“Wanda is the head of housekeeping, and Pietro runs one of the bars. This is my friend, Tasha.”

“Hey.” She greeted them by raising her chin in acknowledgment.

“Sit. Tell me everything,” Wanda said, her arm sliding around Clint's in a conspiratorial fashion.

“Everything about...”

“Don't mind her,” Pietro interjected. “She dreamed last night.”

“Dreamed?” Nat asked.

Wanda attempted to brush aside her brother's comment. “It is nothing.”

“Wanda dreams. Sometimes her dreams portend things to come.”

“And what did you dream?” asked Nat.

The other woman seemed conflicted for a few moments before answering, “I dreamed a sweet pea blossomed. It opened blood-red petals to the sun.” She continued when it became apparent they weren't following the meaning behind the dream. “The sweet pea means shyness. Red is the color of passion. Someone will finally allow their passion to blossom into being.”

“You're into that sort of thing?” asked Clint.

“My sister is into a great many things. Read his tarot, sister.”

“He is not interested--”

“Yeah, read his tarot.”

Clint turned an acidic glance Natasha's way.

Wanda reached into her purse to pull out a well-loved pack of tarot cards. The cards were frayed, slight foxing around the edges. Colors had begun fading. She handed him the deck and asked him to shuffle, and once he returned them, she laid out three cards face down in front of her.

She flipped the first card. “The Fool, an ending and a new beginning. The two of swords brings a choice and a refusal to make difficult decisions. Five of cups reversed indicates recovery and acceptance of the past.”

Clint really wasn't the type to put any stock in tarot cards. Sure, the cards were eerily accurate to what he was going through, but that was the thing. They were so vague they could apply to anyone. What got him, though, was Wanda's concern, the way she reached across the table, rested her palm over his hand, and squeezed gently. He startled a little. Being touched wasn't something he was used to anymore. He smiled and maybe hooked one of his fingers over hers.

Naturally, Nat caught him in the process, and he offered an internal groan. No way was she backing off the train now. He could see the deviousness alight in her eyes.

“We should be going, Sis,” Pietro announced, and if he seemed a little shifty, Clint had no idea what to make of it. The guy was honestly pretty weird and seriously protective.

Smiling, Wanda leaned closer to press a kiss against Clint's cheek before tucking away her cards and standing. “It is all right to blossom, sweet pea.”

And if that comment didn't floor him, he didn't know what else would.

His partner cleared her throat once the twins had left. “So... Pancakes?”

“I don't want pancakes.”

“Well la dee da. I'm having pancakes.”

Wait for it.

“Wanda seems into you,” she continued while fussing with the digital ordering system.

“Shit on a shingle, I knew you weren't gonna let it go.” Exasperated. Exasperated was a good word to describe how he felt. He snatched the interface away from her to order tacos.

“Let what go?” Big, innocent eyes. “I'm just saying.” Nat leaned toward him. “Did you get a phalloplasty? Or do you stuff bananas in your shorts?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Nope. Natasha Romanoff, but I see where you might get confused.”

A beat of silence passed.

“Tell me.”

Silence.

“Tell me.”

Silence.

“Tell me.”

Silence.

“Tell me or you'll wake up one morning with Anastasiya sleeping on your face.” Anastasiya was her green bottle blue tarantula. 

“You wouldn't.”

She offered him a bland expression. She would. She absolutely would.

“Oh for fuck's sake, yes. Are you happy?”

“I wanna see it.”

“You are stepping on my last nerve, Natashenka.”

“Does it work? I mean, can you get an erection and have intercourse with Wanda?”

“This is why I didn't tell you,” he exploded. “Because I know you have zero sensitivity training and would wind up making things uncomfortable.” He shoved to his feet. “I need to be away from you right now. Don't follow me, Romanoff.”

Clint stomped up to the counter to get his tacos to go and left, spending the next hour or so in a little garden behind the commissary where he ate lunch alone. Thing was, he knew Nat didn't mean anything by it. She was like a dog with a bone about every subject that interested her and was generally an overwhelming person. It didn't make her any easier to take when it came to a subject as sensitive as his transition and sexuality. The last thing he needed was her digging in her needle-teeth.

Of course, Natasha Romanoff also knew how to obey zero requests for privacy, so after he'd eaten and had a chance to stew, she found him—she'd probably known where he was the entire time—sitting on a bench watching a family of small lizards fight over the crumbs of his taco shells. She flopped down beside him and offered him her sunglasses.

“Sorry.”

“I know you are.” He bumped their shoulders together.

“I've never known a transgender person. You're gonna have to help me out here.”

A tiny sigh escaped him. “Look, I'm still Clint Barton. Just don't pick at me about it, and if I say I don't want to answer something, respect that.”

“Anybody ever give you any shit about using the men's room?”

“Not looking like this,” he indicated the physique he'd worked very hard to achieve. “In ways, I've got it a lot easier than most transgender people, so don't take my word or my experiences as common.”

“How long since you transitioned. Is transitioned the right word?”

“I've known I'm transgender since I was a kid but didn't start transitioning until I was twenty-one. That's when I started taking T. That's testosterone.”

“Is that why you and Barney fight all the time?”

“Yep. He refuses to respect my gender and insists on calling me Chleo.”

“That shits.”

He laughed a little. “Yeah, that shits.”

“Have you--” She paused before continuing, “Is it why you were scared to come here?”

“Yeah. I haven't-- It's hard to describe, but I don't like being on display. That undercover op where I posed as a stripper was awful. It's not that I'm self-conscious about my body. I love my body. I've worked so damn hard to love my body, but people aren't always kind when they see my scars.”

She reached over to clap him on the back. “Well, I think you're hot, Boo.”

“Thanks.”

“I still wanna see your junk, though.”

Okay, so that made him laugh. Just a little, and he reached over to pull her into his side for a cuddle.

XXXXX

Bucky snuffled back the snot clogging his nose and wiped a forearm across his face to take away the remains of his tears. Crying sucked. It made his head hurt and his eyes dry and tired. He opened his palm and looked at what remained of the tiny scars at the tip of each finger where the needles had been inserted and tried to rub them away by buffing them against his jeans. It didn't work. Just like it hadn't worked the thousand other times he'd done the same.

His parents had thought they were doing the right thing. They had thought they were saving his eternal soul. It was the only way he could not wake up every morning hating their guts for listening to him scream in the psychologist's office and not come running to help. They hadn't sent him to conversion therapy; they'd sent him to Guantanamo therapy.

He scuffed his fingertips again and finally unfolded himself from the small space between his bed and the wall because he was a thirty-eight year old man, and by God, he was not gonna let what happened when he was twelve ruin the rest of his day. He really was not, so he climbed to his feet and changed into jeans and a soft t-shirt. That was what all the self-help blogs said. 'When you've recovered from a trigger, treat yourself to something wonderful.'

Fully intent on doing just that, he moved to leave his room and almost tripped over another shipping package. A brow popped up. Looking both ways down the hall, he snagged it up and took it inside for inspection. Just like the last one, it had no return address and no indication of who might have sent it.

He opened the package to find a handful of guitar picks inside. They weren't just any guitar picks, though. Regular picks were a dime a dozen. The ones sent to him were inlaid with mother of pearl. Some were made out of what he suspected was real gold, and protective plastic enclosed two picks that were made out of meteor rock. Genuine meteor rock. He was holding a frigging star in his hand.

For a moment, his heart pounded a staccato rhythm. Steve was the most likely suspect for sending him expensive gifts. He didn't know anyone else who would send them, but after their fight that morning, he couldn't imagine why that man would ever speak to him again let alone give him things.

A knock at his door distracted him. He found Cyke standing outside.

“We need to talk about what happened this morning.”

“It's no big deal.”

“The fact that you describe it as 'no big deal' is a massive red flag, Mr. Buchanan. Mr. Rogers can't do his job if you refuse to help look after your own needs. Frankly, it's a sign your dom can't trust you enough to safely scene with you.”

A chill raced up his spine. “Does this mean-- Are you firing me?”

“If it were up to me? Yes. Doing what you did with an inexperienced dom would have put you both in a lot of trouble. Both of you could have gotten hurt. But Mr. Rogers thinks you just need more in depth training. I'll be taking over that training in his place.”

“No offense, but I don't want anyone else but Steve.”

“You, unfortunately, don't have much say in the matter. Your prior relationship with Mr. Rogers makes it impossible for you to safely scene with him, and I won't allow you to hurt him again.”

“Hurt him?” Bucky nearly screeched.

“Look, I don't care how your marriage ended. What I care about is Mr. Rogers' emotional welfare and making sure you can adequately fulfill your contract without being hurt or hurting anyone else. Either you accept me as your trainer, or we'll have to dismiss you from our staff.”

And Bucky just happened to find himself in a situation where he needed the island much more than they needed him. After a beat of silence, he said, “Fine.”

“Then J.A.R.V.I.S. will instruct you on your new schedule. Friday, all the subs have a meeting with our Master Submissive. Miss Mockingbird is giving a lecture on submission you need to attend.”

Two fingers grazed his forehead in mock salute before he beat-feet in the opposite direction. The mere thought of letting Scott tie him down and do things to his body sent chills up his spine.

He found himself pounding on Warren's door seeking entrance.

Minutes passed before the guy, bleary-eyed and clearly hungover, answered the door.

“I can't fucking stand that man,” he said upon shoving his way inside.

“Who?”

Bucky flopped over onto Warren's messy bed and said, “Scott-fucking-Summers.”

“Why'd he crawl up your ass?”

He sat up suddenly and wiggled his nose. “Jesus Christ on a whole wheat cracker. You smell like a distillery. How the fuck much did you have to drink? It's, like, seven at night.”

Warren responded with a toothy smile. “Went to a beach party after your disaster this morning. And you didn't answer my question.”

“What question? Oh. Scott-fucking-Summers. He's got a log up his ass. Walks around pretending like his shit don't stink. Him and that GQ fucking face. Belongs on an Abercrombie and Fitch poster.”

The other guy laughed while pouring himself a cup of coffee. “That's rich coming from you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You looked in a mirror lately? You weren't exactly hit with the ugly stick.”

Bucky stopped in the midst of swinging his legs back and forth and sat up. “Huh?”

“Dude. Seriously? Is your self-esteem that bad? You walk around this place in your tight ass jeans and strut around on stage in your lacy panties, and you've honestly got no idea how hot you are? This isn't Twilight where Bella Swan's so innocent she can't tell how hot she is.”

“I honestly have no idea what you just said.”

His friend offered a put-upon sigh. “Okay, what's your real beef with Cyke?”

“He's supposed to take over my training.”

“And because you're demisexual, this makes you uncomfortable. Fair enough. You sure it doesn't have anything to do with Cyke being your ex-husband's assistant, and therefore, his main submissive?”

“What? No!”

Warren coughed 'bullshit' into his curled fist.

“I'm not jealous!”

“You're lying to yourself,” the other guy said in sing-song.

“Jesus, why did I knock on your door?”

“Because I'm wonderful and very likely the only friend you have.”

“Touché.”

“Why weren't you at the party?”

“I don't do parties,” he answered absentmindedly.

His companion gave him a dubious look. “Everybody does parties.”

“Too many people at parties. I don't like being around that many people at one time.”

The look he received in response clearly asked if Bucky was one Pringle short of a whole stack.

“Why did you come to a sex island? You don't like sex with strangers. You're not into parties. Clearly, you've got some hang-up with your ex-husband. You're a fucking dish with the self-esteem of a fence post. No. A fence post has no problem being a fence post. It knows its purpose in life.”

For the space of a heartbeat, he considered telling Warren the truth only to swallow it down. Nothing good could come of revealing the photographs he'd taken. Neither did he want to try explaining his refusal to go to the police. Paranoia wasn't necessarily a good thing with the rest of society. It certainly didn't make him look very sane.

So he mumbled something about wanting to explore kink in a safe environment. What surprised him was the warm curl of excitement that blossomed in his loins when he remembered being on stage. When he remembered Steve buckling him into the cross and putting him on display. When he'd shut out the voices of his former psychiatrist, his parents, and every pastor he'd ever been introduced to and had allowed himself to feel.


	6. Last Night, I Was Inside Of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brock and Bucky get to know each other better. Steve is super duper jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to get this to you late. I was in the hospital with complication from Crohn's disease. Sometimes I hate my body.
> 
> Warning: Bucky has some flashbacks about his time in Aversion Therapy.

The next two days of Bucky's life were spent avoiding Scott like the plague. He attended regular orientation classes wherein he crammed himself in between Warren and Brock. Warren kept up a running commentary that often had Bucky in stitches while Brock entertained him with Skittles and peanut butter M&Ms. Brock didn't seem to mind when he hid his face in Brock's shoulder to avoid witnessing a particularly gruesome caning sessions that had Warren panting like a dog in heat.

It culminated that Friday morning when all the submissives piled into NEVs for a trek across the island to the dominant pod where island staff prepared their new dominants. They were led inside a plush room with luxurious velvet walls. Miss Mockingbird awaited them on a throne, legs tucked properly beneath her and hands folded upon her lap.

Her assistant, a mousy woman who introduced herself as Jemma, took up position in front of a cross to set up various instruments for the day's lesson.

“Today, we'll be talking about subspace,” Mockingbird began. “How many of you have heard of it?”

Most of her audience raised their hands, but Bucky was relieved he wasn't the only one who hadn't.

“Subspace is a result of adrenaline surges, natural epinephrin, and endorphins that dump into the body as a result of extremes in pleasure and pain. Your mind can dissociate from your surroundings, causing you to float in a morphine-like haze. Giving up control to that extent can be incredibly intoxicating, but it also leaves you vulnerable. This is why you must have complete trust in your partner.

“You won't always achieve subspace; not everyone can, and everyone experiences it differently. Never feel bad because you haven't entered subspace. Never allow your dominant to make you feel insufficient for holding back. Drop any dominant who tries.”

Bucky swallowed and slunk down in his chair a little farther. The idea of subspace scared the shit outta him. There was no way he could let himself lose that much control.

“Jemma is my dominant. We've worked together for many years, and I can reliably trust her to send me into substance and then to take care of me once I'm there. Remember that aftercare is incredibly important when you're working with kink. Your dom will need to pay special attention after you float.”

Watching Jemma care for Mockingbird while strapping her into the cross made him deeply uncomfortable. He couldn't say why when he hadn't experienced anything near the same discomfort when he himself was placed on the cross by Steve. Something about watching it happen upset him.

Jemma lovingly placed a ball gag in Mockingbird's mouth and moved strands of golden hair to avoid them tangling in straps or buckles. The dominant selected a flogger from a table, allowed the leather straps to slither through her fingers. Then, it was like watching a light switch flick. All trace of softness left Jemma's expression as she hardened into stone.

“Are you mine?” she asked, her voice razor sharp.

Mockingbird nodded.

“Do you want me to show you that you're mine?”

Another nod.

Leather hissed through the atmosphere and cracked against Mockingbird's skin. The snap of the flogger left red stripes in its wake. Once. Twice. A third time, and the submissive arched so hard skin pulled taut along her ribs as beads of sweat slithered down between her breasts.

“No one can care for you the way I do. No one else can give you what you need.”

Mockingbird nodded. A small sound ripped from her throat on the next strike of the flogger.

And Bucky felt something slither deep down into his guts. Heat shot through him in pursuit of the echo of Dr. Sofen's voice that so ruthlessly chipped away at teenaged Bucky's sexual confidence. Then, the zap of electroshock sending muscles into a frenzy of twitching while homosexual pornography played across the screen in Dr. Sofen's office.

She'd made him watch porn only to torture him when his body reacted. Aversion Therapy, she'd called it. That was why watching was so much harder than participating. He squeezed his eyes closed to hide from the feelings only to feel someone's hands close around his.

He looked up to find Brock, knuckles tattooed with 'Love' and 'Peace,” lacing their fingers together. Shock came in the wake of the contact. Someone was paying attention. Someone recognized the decades of shame doing battle against Bucky's desire for freedom of self-expression.

“It's okay, Sugar,” the man murmured, “let it out.”

Something wet rolled down Bucky's cheek. He forced himself to turn back toward the stage where Mockingbird looked euphoric, lips stretched taut around the ball gag, body straining toward the next strike of the flogger, a pair of rubber-tipped clamps clutching her nipples.

He wanted to look away again. Every instinct begged to be allowed to retreat, but with a powerful and entirely new-found sense of self-restraint, he dug in his heels.

What Mockingbird and Jemma did wasn't ugly. The trust each placed in the other was beautiful. They were so close to each other. He could read the love in Jemma's body language when she unfastened the clamps and closed her mouth around Mockingbird's nipples. There was love there no matter what Dr. Sofen had tried to tell him. No matter what his parents had said. Trust was a form of love.

He squeezed Brock's hand and quickly dashed away the tears.

Mockingbird's euphoria melted into bliss, and she sagged into her restraints. Her dominant produced a pair of headphones and a blindfold. The blindfold covered the top half of her face. The headphones muted her surroundings. And she wanted it. She adored it. She reveled in it, a butterfly larva splitting its cocoon to emerge into the outside world in her colorful raiment.

Bucky mopped at his cheeks when Brock produced a tissue from his pocket.

“It's not ugly,” Bucky whispered, awe softening his voice. “It's not ugly at all.”

“Baptist? Mormon? Lutheran?”

“Baptist,” he responded.

Brock nodded, and he almost didn't catch the man's quiet response of,“FLDS.”

They allowed the conversation to drop in favor of watching the remainder of the demonstration, another incident of Bucky being at the low end of a learning curve. Mockingbird's orgasm was a thing of absolute beauty, and watching Jemma take care of her afterward while the submissive floated into a catatonic state made something inside him go soft and warm. 

After class, they all went back to their own side of the island where Brock invited him for some drinks on his deck. They stripped down to boxer briefs to relax in the man's jacuzzi, a stark contrast to the heaviness of the conversation that followed.

“Sperm Donor was an elder in the FLDS,” Brock began. “He was a real shit who married four women. I had twenty-seven siblings, but being as I was the oldest, Fuck-Face expected a lot more of me than my siblings. Found out he made one of my fourteen year old sisters marry some fifty year old rapist, so I stole her, and we fled together. Haven't been back since.”

“Jesus Christ, is she all right? Stupid question. How can you be all right after something like that?”

“Went and got herself a law degree from the state of Arizona and works as an activist helping other women gain freedom from the FLDS.” Brock spoke with no small amount of pride.

“And you?”

Brock grinned around the mouth of his beer bottle. After swallowing, he said, “Now, now, Buckaroo. No getting personal on me. Just wanted you to know you wasn't the only only suffocating under a mountain of indoctrination. Took me a long ass time to understand how their manipulation fucked me six ways to Sunday when it comes to my sexuality.”

“How did you get over it?”

“Shit's sake, don't do it my way, Pal. Recovery took me down a dark ass road. I started doing everything the church told me was wrong. Got into drugs. Went to some really skank ass bathhouses. Fucked a lot of people I probably shouldn't have.”

“Oh God, you have AIDS, don't you.”

His companion choked on a sip of beer. “What the fuck, Sugar! What kinda asshole you take me for? I woulda told you before we hooked up if I was infected. 'Sides, they don't let you on this island if you can't pass all your tests. Too much risk of passing that shit around.”

Relief poured through him, made him sink down beneath the water line and hold his breath. He didn't emerge until his lungs ached from lack of oxygen.

“Tell you what, though. Only reason I don't got AIDS is down to pure luck. Someone out there was watching out for me.” He poked two fingers at the sky. “I had so much unprotected sex I gotta thank God my dick didn't fall off. So for fuck's sake, don't do my route. You gotta do it healthy like, go to therapy. That kinda shit.”

“Oh fuck no.”

Brock gave him a questioning look.

“Conversion therapy.”

That seemed to be all the explanation his companion needed about his adamant refusal to have anything to do with therapy. Wild-fucking-horses couldn't drag him into a therapist's office.

“Guess you're gonna have to find someone you trust to help you over those hurdles. Least you came to the right place. Don't know if you've noticed this, but this is an island specializing in sex therapy. Least if you're gonna fuck around, you'll be safe doing it.”

“So you're saying what? I should go wild? Fuck a bunch of people?”

“Sure. Ain't gonna hurt nobody long as you're careful about it.”

“There's just one problem; I'm not built that way. I don't like having a bunch of strangers touching me. Sexually. If you know what I mean.”

“Asexual?”

“Demisexual. Apparently with a kink for being watched.”

“Well that's all right then. Just find somebody who loves watching and go to town.” Brock was quiet for a moment before continuing, “You're a good kid. Don't let them fuckers who hurt you win.”

“I'm thirty-eight, Brock. Not a kid anymore.”

Brock smiled.

It sent a flutter through Bucky's body. That guy had a great smile.

“Guessing you don't talk to your folks no more?”

“No. They disowned me when I married my ex-husband. I've got an older sister out there somewhere, but we're not close. There's a ten year age gap. She got out from under them years before I did. Last I heard, she'd moved to Finland for a scientific job.”

“That's a shame, Sugar. Most of my siblings chose to stay in the life, so I had cut them off. Couldn't continue slamming my head against that wall trying to convince them of the danger they were in. Sucks, but sometimes you gotta walk away to protect yourself.”

“You still believe in God?”

“Hell yeah. Nature's too fucking perfect to think there isn't somebody up there making it all work.”

“How, though? How can you believe there's a god when he condemns you for being...?”

“Pan,” Brock responded. “Just because they told me the wrong answers doesn't mean there aren't some answers out there. Pharisees was the old order, right? They were the branch of Judaism concerned with strict laws. Stone the prostitutes. Don't eat with the poor. Take a piss on the Lepers. Banish everybody they thought was unclean.

“Then this dude named Jesus comes along preaching a message of love. He eats with the sinners, heals the sick, doesn't take a piss on the Lepers. The Bible says Jesus is right, right?”

Bucky nodded.

“Then He became the law, and He tells us to live with faith, hope, and love, and that the greatest of those is love, right?”

He nodded again.

“Well, then. I'm gonna fucking love until my heart can't hold anymore love. 'Sides, Bible was written by men wearing rose colored glasses and translated so many damn times it probably said we weren't supposed to eat Hell-fish instead of shellfish.”

That made Bucky giggle in ways he hadn't giggled before. He thought in that moment that he fell just a little bit in love with Brock Rumlow.

The next day, Bucky stopped outrunning Cyke and found himself on his knees in the office of People's Sexiest Man Alive, head bowed and arms tucked behind his back. For the most part, Cyke ignored him while going over some paperwork. Being ignored pissed Bucky off at first. After all, wasn't he there to learn? Not remind himself that he wasn't a spring chicken. His knees were fucking killing him.

“We gonna get on with this, or what?”

Cyke ignored him.

“Yoohoo. I'm talking to you.”

Being ignored was really starting to piss him off, but he tried once more. “Is there a plan here, Sir?”

“At last, he learns how to speak appropriately to his dominant.”

“I thought you were Steve's sub.”

Silence.

“I thought you were Steve's sub, Sir.”

Cyke lifted his glance from his paperwork finally. “I'm what is called a switch. It means I'm capable of being a dominant or a submissive depending on the situation. Now, is there something you needed?”

Bucky squirmed and tried to recall the rules for his present situation, a situation where discomfort was quickly bleeding toward physical pain. Finally, he said, “Yellow?”

The other man immediately came to his feet, knelt in front of him, and cupped his cheeks to make sure they maintained eye contact. “What do you need?”

“My knees, Sir. They're killing me from holding this position for so long.”

“Please, rise.”

A palm came to cup Bucky's elbow, and Cyke supported some of his weight while he rose. His knees popped. He yowled over the discomfort before sweet relief finally arrived. After, Cyke instructed him to make himself comfortable on the sofa.

“That was a perfect use of the color system. You were very good while I ignored you until your patience tanked. Check in with me, Soldier. How do you feel?”

Cyke's praise did something funny to his insides, and he wanted to cling to the sensation, wanted to ask for other good things to be said to him. He didn't. Instead, he stretched his legs in front of him. “Good, Sir. I'm green now.”

“Captain tells me you like being watched.”

Bucky nodded.

Cyke leaned back against his desk, legs crossing at the ankles. “And that you prefer not to be touched by people you aren't emotionally close with.”

He nodded again. “Is that bad?”

“Not at all. There are guests who feel the same as you. We can still use your talents.”

And if that wasn't a revelation, he didn't know what was. “There are others like me?”

“My wife for one. Jean is not in the business, but she lives here on the island with me.”

“That must be... She doesn't get jealous over you... You know.”

“What I do on the island is much less about sex than it is about control. But no, she isn't jealous.”

The more they talked, the more Bucky relaxed into the sofa on which he sat. It dispelled some of the notions he had surrounding Scott, which wasn't to say the guy was ever gonna be his bestie. Just meant they might be able to salvage something of a working relationship.

“Do you like being punished?”

“No.” And the tension flooded back into him. “I don't want that. The punishment.” In his mind, he went right back to Dr. Sofen's office and the hot burn of needles lancing into his fingertips.

“Breathe with me, Soldier.”

He came back to his surroundings feeling Cyke holding Bucky's hand against Cyke's chest where he experienced the calm, even rhythm of the other man's heartbeat evening out his own. He breathed. Deeply. And felt himself calm.

“Thanks. I don't--”

“Communication is key to a successful scene. You need to be open with me.”

“Sorry. I just thought you couldn't stand me. The way you spoke to me after the blow-out with Steve.”

“Steve is a friend. He's more than a friend. As such, his emotional health is more important to me than anything except my wife. Perhaps I was over-eager in my condemnation of you, but you don't need me mollycoddling you to become a skilled submissive.”

Bucky nodded his understanding.

“So you don't like the idea of punishment. What about a reward system? Can I give you a treat for being so good with you traffic lights today?”

“Yeah. That would be better.”

He felt a little vulnerable when his hand slipped from Scott's and dropped back into his own lap. The man rolled to his feet and moved back to lean against his desk.

“Unfasten your pants and pull your cock out. I want to see it.”

Swallowing around a knot of tension, Bucky moved to obey. He shimmied around until he could lower his jeans—and boy did his brain flash back to Warren complimenting him on strutting around his skinny jeans—and hook his briefs behind his balls to expose himself to Cyke's gaze. Spots of color warmed his cheeks when his dominant made no move to approach or touch.

“Beautiful,” the other man breathed. “You're so beautiful it almost hurts to look at you.”

Where the fuck had that come from? “You sure you aren't looking in a mirror, Sir? There's a reason I've been calling you People's Sexiest Man Alive in my head.”

Cyke's mouth twitched into a smile. “How are you so oblivious to your own appeal?”

Bucky shrugged.

“Touch yourself, Gorgeous.”

Praise skipped pleasantly along his nerve endings. A moment of trepidation stilled his response, but eventually, he complied by closing his palm around his dick and smoothing up the shaft so he could circle the head with his thumb. His glans was extremely sensitive. Between the stimulation and knowing Cyke was watching, something hungry opened in his loins.

His cock fattened. He spat in his palm and skimmed himself from base to tip, squeezing with every up-stroke, and fucking Hell, being watched without being touched was really turning him on. 

“How does it feel?”

His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “Good. How does this fucking feel so good? I hated you yesterday. Why am I getting of on you watching me? Sir.”

It made Cyke chuckle, but there was nothing malicious about the laughter. “Welcome to the joy of sex, where your body craves all sorts of weird things for reasons that seem inexplicable and proceeds to insist you feed it those weird things on a daily basis.”

Laughter bubbled up from Bucky's chest. Oh God, he'd just laughed at something Cyke said. His thumb stuttered across his penis' frenulum, and he traced down the underside until he cupped his balls. They were treated to a gentle tug before he returned to pulling on his shaft. But something was missing, some piece of the formula that kept him feeling distant, removed from himself.

“Can I--”

“What do you need, Gorgeous? Communicate with me.”

He moistened his lips again. “I'd like to try a blindfold, Sir.”

“Such a brave boy. Look at you learning how to communicate and ask for your needs. I'm so proud.”

That small bit of praise made his cock jump in his own grip. He watched the other man open a drawer and collect a swath of red cloth. It startled him a little when Cyke approached, enough that his hand stilled on his dick, but his dominant didn't do anything more than tie the cloth around his eyes, veiling him in darkness and shrinking his world to touch and sound.

Then, he heard the other man cross back to lean against his desk. “Continue.”

The blindfold made him hyper-aware that someone hovered nearby. It allowed him to relax into the sensations zinging throughout his loins, and he couldn't swallow a needy sound that escaped when he chafed his palm up and back down his shaft.

A cocoon enfolded him. Darkness, and warmth, and desire existed inside his cocoon. The softness of his own thumb dipped into the slit on his dick to pull away a string of pre-come. Across the room, Cyke shifted minutely. Maybe he adjusted himself in his jeans. Maybe he was turned on by Bucky's lewd display. Someone was there. Cyke was there, keeping the demon at bay. He was safe. Nothing could hurt him with his dominant near at hand.

He jerked himself faster. Bare toes curled when tension washed up into his groan. Nothing could hurt him inside his cocoon. Not Dr. Sofen. Not his parents. Not the preachers who'd counseled him. They were a billion miles away.

“Fuck, Sir. Sir, please.”

“You're so beautiful, Soldier. That's it, Gorgeous. Let yourself go.”

A breathless whisper slithered from the edges of his vocal cords. The praise rasped pleasantly along his body, a brush of velvet against hyper-sensitive skin. He twisted his hand around the cockhead, pumped the shaft with increasing intensity.

“Let go, Gorgeous. My brave boy. Let the pleasure take you from your mind. Come for me.”

Waves of ecstasy washed through him when he came. He shouted. A hoarse sound full of need. The proof of his orgasm splashed across his skin. Then, he collapsed against the sofa.

XXXXX

Pepper placed a stack of manilla folders on Steve's desk before crossing to flop onto his sofa. She eased her heels off. “Updated guest list. J.A.R.V.I.S has matched them to our staff, but I'll need your final approval on the placement of our staff submissives before the day is out.”

Steve acknowledged her with a soft sound while finalizing his schedule. Mostly, his job consisted of lecturing during the season. Everything from the practice of safe kink to dispelling myths surrounding practitioners of BDSM. Recently, there had been an upsurge of people seeking validity regarding their sexuality, and he was happy to help anyone who struggled in that regard. 

Truthfully, his heart hadn't really been in his work the past couple of days. He couldn't stop thinking about Bucky, couldn't stop worrying about his ex checking out of their last session together. It didn't matter that they were five years divorced. Divorce hadn't made him stop caring about the man.

“I'm pregnant.”

“What?” He jerked his attention away from his work quicker than he could spit.

“Kidding. I just wanted to get your attention.”

“Christ, don't do that to a fella, Peps.” A hand clutched his heart. “The idea of you with pregnancy hormones is terrifying enough. Add Stark spawn to the equation, and we should start building survival bunkers for protection.”

She spoke through her laughter. “Surely it wouldn't be that bad.”

Both his brows popped up in a dubious look. Instead of responding, he flipped open the first folder to re-check J.A.R.V.I.S and his matchmaking system. Most of the guests consisted of returning clientele, but his glance caught upon a new name. A picture of Alexander Pierce grimaced up from his identification information. Something about the man's eyes unsettled Steve. 

“Something wrong?”

“Mr. Pierce is into some pretty serious kink. Says he's normally a dom but is interested in submitting for the first week of his vacation.”

That wasn't a problem. Steve was a huge fan of every dom experiencing things from the submissive side as well. It was hard to judge how hard a flogger struck until you'd been flogged yourself. Helped them to understand how their techniques affected the human body.

“Remove him from Worthington's list. I'll handle him personally, and I recommend Bobbi does the same when he switches to the submissive side of the island. Also, take Barnes off the list of available submissives. He isn't ready to receive guests yet.”

“Is that because he's not ready or because Steve Rogers is jealous?”

He shot her an acid look. “You don't know his history the way I do, and it's entirely possible he might never be ready to scene with guests. He needs to be here, though.”

Her voice lilted into sing-song. “Steve and Bucky sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

He threw a wad of paper at her.

“So when you say he needs to be here, you mean what exactly?”

“It's not my story to tell. I'll cover his expenses while he's not receiving guests. Not like you don't pay me a stupid amount of money.”

“Your salary is commensurate with the number of people who could easily replace you,” she said in an off-hand sort of manner. “But I'm not concerned with Barnes getting a free ride on the island. As you say, we are a therapeutic facility as much as anything else.”

Finally, he turned away from his desk to rest elbows upon knees, offering her a little smile of encouragement. “So why are you really here?” He waved a hand toward the files. “You could have sent Ms. Lewis down with these files.”

“I think Tony's seeing someone else.”

“Oh, Sweetheart.” He rolled his chair closer and settled both hands on her knees. “Why?”

“He's been distant. Not in his normal 'I can't be bothered with anything but inventing' way of being distant. He's not even interested in sex anymore. Part of me knew this might happen, though. A man with his track record for sleeping around? They say the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. I always knew that me being able to satisfy him long term was slim.”

“There are a lot of reasons men become sexually distant. It doesn't have to mean he's getting it elsewhere. He's in his fifties, Peps. Let's bring the diagnosis back out of the sky to something normal instead of immediately jumping to--”

Steve's door banged open, causing them both to jump. The very object of their discussion strolled inside. “It's Picnic Sunday. Why is there a distinct lack of picnicking on Picnic Sunday?”

Pepper released a pent-up breath and unfolded herself from the sofa. “I have a mountain of work before guests arrive. Steve will have to entertain you for Picnic Sunday this week.”

The couple's shoulders brushed when they passed each other. Tony refused to meet Pepper's eyes, and Pepper remained stoic. No wonder they weren't getting on as well as they might. Neither communicated their real feelings. Problems couldn't be solved without communication.

Steve sighed and imagined himself putting on his marriage counselor hat. It was one of a number of different hats he wore as the lead dominant on Eden.

He put the files inside his desk and locked the drawer. “What do you feel like today? Chicken Salad?”

An hour later, both men left Steve's place with picnic basket and blanket in hand, boarded the waiting NEV, and drove away. Picnic Sunday was something most of the island took part in as a team-building exercise. What they all did could be very intense, so it was nice to take a break from their schedules to get together for games and a picnic lunch. Watching everyone mingle could also expose possible problems with personalities before things reached a boiling point.

They found a spot on the lawn under a big palm tree and spread their gingham blanket. Steve greeted Cyke with a smile when the man prowled over carrying a big umbrella that he set up and arranged to protect Steve's skin from the harsh sun. He kissed his assistant on the cheek for his thoughtfulness.

“How was the session with Bucky today?”

“It went well, Sir.”

“Good. Now go and have a lovely afternoon with Jean.”

Once the man left, Tony and he turned to their food.

“I've got a problem. You're going to help me with it.”

Steve heard Tony in the sort of way that made it sound like Tony was shouting across the dunes because at that moment, he found Bucky sprawled like a starfish on a blanket with Brock Rumlow, Warren Worthington, and Colleen Wing. Colleen had her head propped on Warren's lap, and Bucky was selecting grapes from a container and hand-feeding them to Brock. 

Jealousy singed Steve's insides, and he felt his temper rise.

“Are you listening to me? You're not listening to me.”

“Sorry, what?” He straightened up in an attempt to drag his mind from the gutter. “What's this problem I'm supposedly helping you with?”

Tony swallowed a gulp of ginger ale and made a vague gesture toward his crotch. “The little soldier isn't working the way it should be, and I think Pepper's beginning to notice.”

“You thought about telling her?”

“What?” The man practically shrieked. “No way. You do not walk up to your girl and tell her your junk doesn't stand at attention anymore. God, how do you think she'd feel in that scenario? She'd probably blame herself and accuse me of not being turned on by her anymore.” He picked at his sandwich. “Pepper isn't always as confident as she appears.”

“I know.”

“You do, don't you. Probably better than even I do. The two of you have gotten so close.”

“Look, just calm down, Pal. There are a lot of reasons men experience impotence.”

Tony hissed at that name.

“You're getting older. Your testosterone levels are more than likely lower than they used to be. It's normal for men your age to have issues with their libido. Go to your doctor and let a professional take a look at your hormone levels. There are pills for this, Tony.”

“I'm--” Tony must have thought better of speaking his initial response, which was a weird sort of response given the man rarely had any sort of mental filter. “I can't be broken. Steve, I don't know how to relate to Pepper without my dick in working order. Do you understand that?”

“Then I suggest you better figure out how to base your relationship on something other than sex. Look, I'm not this kind of sex specialist. Make an appointment with your doctor. Figure out what it means to age gracefully. And for Christ's sake, communicate with Pepper. She's an amazing woman. Do not fuck up your relationship with her because you're afraid.”

At that point, Bucky eased up from the ground and greeted Brock with a kiss on the lips.

If Steve were Humpty Dumpty who fell on the ground, all the king's horses and all the king's men would be scooping up his neon green insides.


	7. I'll Let You Whip Me If I Misbehave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint gets in the way of his own happiness while Bucky does a little dance and gets down tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There's a pretty intense BDSM scene at the end of this chapter where Steve tops Alexander Pierce. If you prefer to skip it, I'll put a summary of the details at the end of the chapter.

Clint sat alone, an insulated bag next to his hip, beneath the shade of a palm tree. Around him, people had spread out into various cliques, creating small pockets of humanity amidst the endless green of the large lawn on which they'd gathered.

Being alone wasn't a chore. He'd become used to spending vast amounts of time by himself. He used to tell Barney, who'd tried getting him to be more social with the rest of the carnival they'd worked for, that he saw better from a distance to explain his preference for scaling the Ferris Wheel and sitting atop the pinnacle after the close of that day's show.

Some part of him had known even from a young age that he was different, that he didn't look at the world the same way the rest of the people born with a vagina looked at it. Loneliness was easier than recognizing the stark contrast between himself and the people considered his peers.

It was easier not to be burdened with telling people 'I might have breasts like a girl but please don't treat me like one.' It was easier than getting close to people only for them to turn away when they discovered the vagina hiding behind basketball shorts and loose shirts.

Had he known then what he knew now, things would have been different. Everything had changed dramatically when he'd discovered an online community of other people like him, people who had supported him in his decision to transition. People who had encouraged him to seek a counselor and start getting help for his body dysphoria. 

Then he'd blossomed. Then he'd come into his own. Then he'd discovered the joy of accepting himself instead of feeling wrong for wanting to be different than how he'd been born. Then he'd been cleared for top surgery, gone on T, and stopped being terrified of walking into a men's room, afraid someone would have x-ray vision and see beneath his clothing to the vagina hidden beneath. Then he'd sloughed off the internalized paranoia of csi people shrieking about men in women's clothing using the restroom with their daughters, their sisters, their little sheep hiding from wolves wearing sheepskins.

But loneliness was still easier than the push/pull dynamic and confusion that came from being thrilled with his new body but simultaneously afraid of being discovered and ostracized.

He snapped a few photos of suspects. There were three or four people he'd pegged as contenders for being James Barnes, one of which seemed to be the prime focus of Steve Rogers' baleful glance. That was a man seething with jealousy if he'd ever seen one before.

He was just contemplating an egg salad sandwich when Wanda approached. She was like bottled sunshine. Folding a loose, patchwork skirt around her legs, she settled onto her knees and leaned back on her heels to regard him with a light smile.

“You eat alone?”

He shrugged. “Guess I'm just not sure where I fit in.”

“Come. You should join us.” She indicated a picnic blanket some distance away where Pietro and a few others sat eating their lunches.

“I wouldn't want to be a bother.”

A slight huff escaped her. Slapping her hands against her thighs, she pushed to her feet, gathered his lunch bag, and extended a hand toward him. “There is no bother, Brian Canton. We want for you to eat with us. You should not be alone. It is Picnic Sunday.”

The way she gazed at him made him smile. The sun behind her cast fiery highlights in her hair. It limned her silhouette with golds and yellows, and fuck's sake, he'd never seen someone so beautiful in his entire life. She was breathtaking.

Finally, he accepted the offered hand and pulled himself up to follow. The others greeted him with various levels of interest. He recognized Pietro and Dominikos, but the others introduced themselves while he settled beside Wanda, adopting the loose body language of the other men.

“Help me out, Brian. Cam Newton or Tom Brady?” Pietro asked by way of greeting.

“Roger Staubach,” Clint responded. Sports held a special place in Hell as far as he was concerned. Anywhere two or more men gathered, sports became a topic of conversation, and while he was supremely uninterested in anything but archery, he'd needed to become well-versed in the subject to fit seamlessly into society's expectations of what a man should be interested in.

“They have to be a current NFL quarterback,” another guy said.

“Then Russell Wilson. I'm still waiting on Andy Dalton to mature. That guy's got flashes of brilliance between colossal stupidity. If he could get his shit together, he'd be a real play-maker.”

They continued the conversation for a while until Clint noted Wanda backing into her own little world, at which point, he left the others to their sports and turned to engage her. Slowly, he reached out to rescue a lady bug that had gotten stuck in the spider-web of her hair, holding it out to show her on the tip of his finger. The critter scuttled up his finger onto the back of his hand.

“My house used to get swarmed with these suckers every fall. Turns out they were Asian Lady Beetles instead of Ladybugs, but you couldn't walk through a room without getting dive-bombed.”

Wanda settled her fingers against the back of his hand to allow the Ladybug to crawl onto her own hand. She smiled. “Where is your home?”

“Well, I live in New York now, but before that, Tennessee.”

“Sokovia.”

“I haven't heard of it.”

“No. It is not on most maps before the nineties. Sokovia is one of the states that broke from Soviet Russia. They called us the Fortress because our mountainous terrain made it difficult for Russia to attempt invasion to bring us back under Soviet control.”

“How did you wind up here?” He indicated the island in general.

“Our government contracted Mr. Stark to supply us with his clean energy. Pietro and me, we protested. The prime minister and parliament voted to demolish our home as part of the infrastructure project to place the reactor. It wasn't right. They chose an area where the poorest people would be left homeless, and most of us had no other means of finding new apartments.

“Mr. Stark, he heard of what was happening and came forward to pay the moving costs of the displaced. When we heard of his island needing workers, we volunteered to relocate. Mr. Stark is not a nice man, but he is generous. We found a home and friends here.”

They continued chatting for the remainder of the afternoon, and Clint realized that his esteem for Wanda could easily become something else. She made him laugh. Things were easy between them without the usual pressure to fulfill some arbitrary role based on the dichotomy of their genders.

It didn't matter if they talked about war torn Syria or his childish fascination with becoming a trapeze artist. For a good two years, he'd been convinced running away to join a traveling circus was the best use of his future. He'd attempted it once at the tender age of eight. Barney had found him at the bus stop and dragged him home by his pierced ear.

Funnily enough, no one had asked him if he'd wanted his ears pierced. His mom had decided to rush right out with her three month old, vagina-having infant and gotten his lobes pierced with little pink studs. She'd been so mad when he'd pretended to lose them when he'd become old enough to understand that it was his body and his decision what went into his body.

Eventually, they excused themselves to take a walk. She showed him to a particular spot on the beach. It was a small cove sheltered on either side by steep embankments, and they sat for a while to enjoy the sound of the waves. When Wanda's hand crept across the distance separating them and touched his fingers, he tried not to blush or flinch or pull his hand away and was mostly successful.

She smiled over at him, gathered her skirt, and got up to wade, barefoot, into the surf. “Come. The water is nice today.”

Maybe it was the company. Maybe it was something in the air, but he grinned and removed his shoes to follow along, laughing when the surf rushed over his feet and ankles. She grasped his wrists and turned their bodies in circles, sea water splashing around them to become little points of rainbows in amongst the blue sky. It was lovely. The way the tension eased out of him and he could just exist.

A strong wave forced them closer together. Before he really understand their proximity, she was leaning against his chest, soft breasts pillowed on his firm pecs. He got lost in the depths of her blue eyes. Ultimately, he wasn't sure if he moved first or she did. What mattered was the gentle brush of their lips, hers soft, his slightly chapped. They smiled into the kiss.

And for a full minute, it was perfect, their closeness, the energy charging the air between them. It was wonderful. Up until that moment a wave crashed into them and nearly knocked Clint off his feet. As such, it took him a moment to realize Wanda's expression had grown empathetic, concerned, and that was when he glanced down and saw that his shorts had ridden up enough to reveal the faint scarring that remained from the donor sites for his phalloplasty.

He became a deer in headlights and quickly put space between them.

“Brian?”

He backed away and quickly headed onto the beach. “I need to go. Work. You know how it is.”

“There is no need—”

“Please, I just need to get to work, okay? I'll talk to you later.”

She called after him, but he ignored the confusion in her voice, ignored everything but the need to put considerable distance between them so he could freak-the-fuck-out and figure out just how he'd allowed himself to become vulnerable with her. It had happened once before: love. The hope for a future filled with happiness. Kate had said she loved him no matter what. The reality had been a thousand times different. He couldn't risk that again.

Later, left exhausted from feeling too many emotions, he got up to answer the pounding on his door.

As soon as the door was open, Tim said, “Miss Mockingbird's dungeon has a burst water line. I need you to grab a kit and head up there to fix the leak before she drowns.”

“I'm not a--”

“Look, the regular plumber's sick, okay? All you gotta do is fix a pipe, Bluster. Take you ten minutes if you put your mind to it. Run along now. That's a good lad.”

Further attempts to inform Cadwallader that he wasn't a plumber and knew jack shit about plumbing proved useless, as the man skipped away from his doorstep and down the rock path toward the landscaping center. Groaning, he raked a hand over his face and finally went to change into something more appropriate, a pair of knee-length compression shorts beneath his running shorts. A stop at the maintenance shed produced a bag of tools, and he was soon on his way.

Mockingbird's dungeon was located inside the main resort building, and he felt a little like a novice tiger tamer walking into a circus ring full of long-whiskered beasts who hadn't had a good meal in the past month. The place was dim. Polished floors transitioned into walls covered in red velvet. A raised dais in the center contained heavy iron rings and chains that looked like something out of a horror film. In the corner existed a gilt throne. There was a place to rest each thigh, a center block to support the back, and an open space that would allow access to the genitalia.

Deciding to get right to it, he hurried over to a counter and sink to throw open the vanity doors. Water sprayed from a ruptured pipe, causing a pool of water creeping across the floor. He just settled on his haunches to remove the damaged pipe when the door opened to admit a leggy blond. He thanked his lucky stars she wasn't dressed in a leather corset. In fact, she looked quite normal ina pair of boot cut jeans and a sweater.

“You must be the guy from maintenance.”

“Yep. Um. Yes, ma'am.”

She waved off the title. “Please, Bobbi. I completely understand the need for discretion when it comes to our kink staff and guests, but I have nothing to be ashamed of and no need to hide my identity.”

“Brian, then.”

Silence permeated the room. It made him nervous enough that he said the first thing that came to mind. “So you like getting tied up and caned, huh?” A beat of silence. “Oh fuck, I said that aloud.”

Her laughter was rich and husky. “Well, yes. I do in fact enjoy the process of submission. And you?”

“I'm not, you know, here for the kink. Just here to fix things.”

“Does it make you nervous?” She indicated the paraphernalia around them.

“What? No!” He doth protest too much. Then, quieter, “No. I'm just--” Way to act like an intelligent adult, Barton, he said to himself. “You know. To each their own.”

Something unreadable replaced the amusement on her face, a professional mask that gave nothing away. “Is it kink that makes you nervous or sex in general?”

“I didn't say anything!” Inside, his brain chanted for him to hurry up and finish, but of course, the screws that cinched the clamp around the pipe were on there like someone had installed them with cement. This was not happening to him. It really was not.

“It isn't my place to pry, but you are on an island designed to help people explore their sexuality, and I am a registered sex therapist. If you needed help--”

“I don't. Thanks.”

She held her hands up in a sign of surrender.

Finally, the screws came loose, and he changed out the pipe without further trouble. After he cleaned up and repacked his tools, he got to his feet and refused to meet the woman's eyes. “That should do it. If you have any other trouble, just let us know.”

He got the fuck out of Dodge as fast as he could. Didn't really understand his surroundings until he realized he hid in a small niche with hand gripped atop racing heart. Several deep breaths stilled the rising tide of panic.

That was when he realized how bad things had gotten. The thought of sex triggered him. Thing was, what was the point of having a body he loved, of being happy with himself if he was going to coward his way out of sharing his happiness with someone else?

Some people were fine not having sex. There were people on the ace spectrum who could take or leave sex, some who were sex averse, others who wanted romance but no sex at all. But at least they had the courage to acknowledge the things that would make them happy.

Clint was not happy. The idea struck him out of the blue. All the work he'd done on his body, and he still wasn't happy because he was denying an important part of himself. He wanted to share his life with someone special. Being lonely wasn't easier anymore.

As long as he allowed fear to stop him from being close to someone, he couldn't accept himself as a whole person. Because he wasn't acting as a whole person.

Reversing his path, he knocked on Bobbi's door.

She answered with a pleased smile.

“Can you help me?”

“Absolutely,” she responded.

 

XXXXX

Nervous, Bucky peeked between the curtains to the guests seated in ordered rows of garden chairs inside the marquis tent. Generic island music played over the sound system. Men and women wearing rough loin cloths and halter tops moved amidst the guests with trays of refreshment.

Between himself and the audience existed a platform and runway intended for showing off the island's kink staff. Steve and Bobbi sat on either side of the runway in a pair of thrones. His ex looked resplendent in a pair of slim-cut trousers and a military-inspired jacket. There was nothing beneath the jacket but for an expanse of creamy skin and a body cut with whipcord muscles.

He couldn't help but notice the amount of attention Steve's body was receiving and felt himself bristle when one woman approached to allow red-tipped nails to drag down Steve's chest and abs. He started to take a step in that direction but was stopped by Warren.

Bucky scowled at his friend.

“Dude. You are so not over your ex-husband.”

“Shut it.”

“You shouldn't shoot the messenger.”

“You're right. That would be rude. I might stuff a handful of fire ants down the messenger's shorts.”

Warren went a little pale and covered his groin with both hands.

Honor sufficiently upheld, he went back to peeking through the curtains. 

Finally, an emcee took position and started introducing the kink staff in alphabetical order by their chosen call signs. 'Soldier' was thankfully near the end of the line-up, and he had a good laugh at Angel, who wound up being called out first.

A linen cloth belted around his waist, the man flounced on stage with a little spin to strut down the runway. He was greeted by twittering guests. Warren was the sort of guy who wasn't ashamed of his nudity, his body, or his sexual expression, and Bucky found himself envious of the man's ability to work an audience without embarrassment.

Eventually, Bucky couldn't escape the inevitable. His name was called. He schlepped his sorry ass onto the stage where a helpless feeling threatened to overwhelm him. He felt ridiculous, of course. They had him wearing a pair of black booty shorts and a leather corset that cinched his waist and made his pecs look incredibly perky.

A thought struck him out of the blue. He should be incredibly proud of his perky pecs, goddamn it. There he was nearing forty, one of the oldest members of the island staff, but he still had the body of a thirty year old, thank you very much. Even after all the damage he'd put his body through. Bolstered by all the people who'd been insisting he was more attractive than he gave himself credit for, he found the shame easing up, replaced with that trickle of mercury raising a thermometer in the sun.

Catcalls from the audience reminded him of how he'd felt when he'd jerked off in front of Scott, the one time thus far he'd been able to orgasm without feeling ashamed. It helped him remember what approval felt like. So once he was on stage, he gave them a smoldering smirk and flexed his biceps. The crowd hooted their appreciation. He turned and glanced over his shoulder, affecting a coy look, emphasizing it with a little shimmy of his hips that caused his shapely ass to jiggle.

People filling the tent went nuts.

When he spun back around, he caught the eyes of an older gentleman who had fading blond hair and wore black-rimmed glasses. He winked at the guy before heading off stage where Cyke gave him a 'good job' raise of his chin. The approval made him feel even better, so he went straight to Brock and snuggled against the other man's chest to receive a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Where'd that come from, Sugar?”

Bucky shrugged. “Just felt nice.”

“Good. You deserve to feel nice.”

Strong arms came around him, and he snuggled in deeper until Cyke and Jemma pulled them all away to hand out guest assignments. Warren let out a whoop of delight and brandished the photo of his assigned dominant, a leggy woman with black hair. Brock got matched with a redheaded woman. A light smattering of freckles dusted her cheeks, and she went by the monicker “Sin.”

Everyone received a guest except Bucky, something that had him pulling away from Brock to approach Cyke. “Sir, I didn't receive an assignment.”

“You're on probation pending a review to be performed by me.”

“Is this because of me freaking out?” Bucky scrambled to tack a 'sir' onto the end of his question.

“That's something you'll have to take up with Captain. They're his orders.”

All those good feelings pulled a Titanic and sank. His shoulders slumped. Anger arrived hot on the heels of disappointment because clearly, it was Steve's way of playing a game with him, and man was he sick of games. He stalked back to his room to change into something more appropriate before tearing off toward Steve's bungalow.

Naturally, his ex wasn't there. Probably off getting to know whatever guest he'd chosen for the season. Funny that. Refused to allow Bucky Barnes to entertain guests but had no trouble spreading his own legs for the first fella or dame that caught his fancy.

Pulling back on the reins of jealousy did nothing to stop the stampede barreling toward the cliff. Petulant and struggling to find a way to express himself without storming into Steve's office and slapping the stupid out of him, he decided to take the lesser of two evil roads and got drunk. Really drunk. Spectacularly drunk. The 'I woke up in a dumpster with blurry memories and only one shoe' sort of drunk. Then he took a leak on the bushes outside the main resort in front of several guests.

This was told to him after-the-fact by a Warren Worthington who couldn't keep a delirious grin off his face while helping Bucky back to his suite. The guy took far too much amusement in Bucky's shame if anyone wanted his opinion. After being dumped on his bed, he flipped Warren the middle finger.

“Sorry, Ms. Swan. I don't fuck people who're too drunk to consent. Nighty-night. Hope you wake up with an epic hangover.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't.”

“No, I don't.”

The following morning, some grim-faced security guard escorted him to the principal's office. Ms. Potts was an intimidating woman. She sat, regal as a queen, behind a mahogany desk that wouldn't have looked out of place in Queen Victoria's office. Her hair was slicked back into a severe pony tail that emphasized her sharp features.

“Have a seat, Mr. Buchanan.”

Bucky eased into the chair across from Pepper.

“We perform a service for a very elite clientele. Said clientele expects a certain amount of luxury and decorum. May I ask what possessed you to take a leak on our hedges in front of guests?”

“No.”

“Forgive me if I left the impression that was a question.”

He sank down a little on his chair in an effort to avoid her thousand-yard stare. He'd known fellow sergeants with a stare less effective than hers. Clearing his throat, he said, “Steve—err—Captain won't assign me to a guest which means I can't do my job. That jeopardizes my place here.”

She indicated for him to continue.

“Captain and I have history.”

“Ex-husbands, correct?”

“Yeah. Anyhow, I'm pretty sure this is his way of controlling me.”

“So your ex-husband interferes with your employment and you decide to take a leak on our landscaping.”

“Well, when you say it like that...”

Something amused tugged the corners of her mouth. “Do you want to know what I think?”

He nodded.

“There's something there still.”

“What? No! Because that would be awkward. And pathetic. Five years divorced and to still be carrying an old flame? Talk about repressed. You're totally wrong. I don't care one way or another about Steve Rogers.”

“Uh huh.” The look she offered was totally bland.

He felt like a moth being held to a flame.

“It might interest you to know that you aren't alone in harboring feelings for your ex.”

“What?”

“Every March tenth, he has a candle-lit dinner with an empty chair. A single slice of German chocolate cake, topped by one candle, sits on a plate in front of the empty chair.”

Bucky felt color drain from his face in a sickening sensation. He became breathless.

“Whatever happened between the two of you, it's clear you aren't emotionally done with each other.”

“That doesn't matter.”

“Oh, it matters, Mr. Buchanan.”

Her office door banged open. Tony Stark rushed inside and without looking, swept Pepper into his arms, bent her over at the waist, and kissed her mouth. Hard. Upon releasing her, he presented a basket of strawberries.

“I just back from my doctor. There's this little blue pill full of awesome. Tonight, I'm going to knock your socks off, Sweet-cheeks. Remind you what you do to me. Show you the stars.”

“Tony.” Something fond softened her features. “Did you know there's only one thing in the world I'm allergic to? Strawberries.”

He smacked himself in the forehead and said in unison with her, “Strawberries.”

“Don't piss on the hedges again, Mr. Buchanan. You're dismissed.”

He got the fuck out of Dodge.

XXXXX

Steve's anger was a hard block of cement in the center of his chest that sometimes grew so big it forced other emotions to abandon ship. Like too many bodies swarming the life boats on a sinking boat. The weaker were shoved off the sides into writhing water in advance of the stronger.

Watching Bucky come out of his shell on stage made him angry. Sure, a significant part of him was incredibly relieved that his ex had gotten some self-esteem, some understanding that he should revel in the body he worked hard to maintain. But that selfish part of him railed over not being enough to inspire Bucky to change before their divorce.

Sometimes when he woke, he wanted to scream into the night 'Why didn't you care enough about me to get help so we could save us? Why wasn't I enough for you to even try?' But that selfishness was a nonsensical part of being human. Bucky's mental health should be much more important than Steve's desire to be needed.

He was horrified to realize he'd drifted during a scene and flashed back to the man in front of him. Alexander Pierce was Fort Knox; his vulnerability protected as precious gold. The man was presently strapped to a table, his ankles encased in leather cuffs and hoisted by a winch until he was bent at a ninety degree angle, exposing his ass and taint to Steve's cane.

A series of strikes colored the man's buttocks, purple blooming amidst the red, and Steve felt some of the anger drain into a place of calm, a place of serenity, a place of utter control as he allowed himself to focus on the his submissive.

“Breathe through it,” he instructed, fingers smoothing through Alex's graying hair. “Deep breaths.”

When his sub's breathing evened, Steve stepped back and tapped the cane against the man's thighs. Small, raised welts littered pale flesh. His sub arched off the table with a bitten-off sound somewhere between a shout and a moan.

“You're right there on the edge, Sweetheart. Breathe in.”

Alex obeyed.

“Now out.”

Alex obeyed again.

It wasn't about hitting the man's tender flesh as hard as possible. The cane did the work. Tapping was enough to sting. From there, he built the pain up in layers, sometimes moving to virgin ground, sometimes raising purple pigment where red already existed.

Another three successive blows landed against Alex's taint, making the man's asshole flutter. His submissive released a strangled, keening sound. A brief pause passed to allow the pain to settle deep into the man's muscles. Then, another three strikes landed on purple flesh.

After, came the calm. Steve breathed deeply, forced aside thoughts of Bucky, and allowed himself to feel powerful, to feel graceful, to feel in control. His body language loosened, and he set aside the cane to pull on a pair of nitrile gloves and drizzle massage oil onto a palm.

Chafing his hands warmed the oil, and he smoothed it over Alex's traumatized skin.

“You're doing well, Sweetheart. Do you remember your stop motion?”

Alex nodded, teeth clenched around a ball gag.

“Show me.”

The man shook his head back and forth a few dozen times.

“Good boy. So good for your dominant.”

Some of the angry flush fled from the other man's skin, and Steve finally traced a finger around Alex's hole. It fluttered in response. His submissive arched into the touch, but Steve denied him.

“No.” His voice became sharp like a whip crack. “You don't get that until I say you're ready for it.”

A frustrated sound escaped his submissive.

“Do you wish to complain about that?” An arched brow should have conveyed his disappointment.

Alex shook his head no.

Steve retrieved a long instrument that tapered into a wedge, the blade of it deep red, the handle black. He switched on the zapper and touched the tip the back of the man's thigh. Electricity arched between the instrument and Alex's skin, causing the man to jerk and scream around the gag.

“That what you deserve?” demanded Steve.

The man whimpered around his gag.

“Answer me. Is this what you deserve?”

Alex nodded. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye.

Another jolt of electricity sparked against his submissive's taint. It made the man's hole clench and pulled forth another heavy scream. Alex writhed beneath his attention.

Meanwhile, Steve popped the cap on a bottle of lube and slicked two fingers. One circled the man's asshole and gently pushed past the ring of muscle. He crooked his finger to find Alex's prostate.

“That's it, Sweetheart. Let go for me. Let yourself go.”

Alex squeezed his eyes shut.

“No, don't hide. Look at me.”

Alex shook his head no.

Steve touched the zapper to the man's balls.

Alex screamed, and a fresh fall of tears spilled over his lashes.

“I ordered you to look at me.”

Finally, his submissive obeyed, turned a wet gaze in Steve's direction so they could make eye contact and allowed Steve to judge the man's threshold. He smoothed damp hair from Alex's sweaty brow and kissed his forehead. At the same time, his finger rubbed gently against a tight bundle of nerves.

That thing that frightened Steve didn't seem so prominent in Alex's eyes when he was finally cracked open and allowed himself to feel. After reaching that threshold, the man's body opened and became more responsive. He rolled his hips in an attempt to fuck himself on Steve's fingers. 

“Do you want more?”

Silence.

“You have to communicate with me. More?”

More silence.

“Answer me, Alexander,” he snapped.

Alex pulled himself together enough to nod. 

So Steve stepped back, removed his finger, and touched the zapper against his submissive's balls again. Then a second time to a cherry red ass cheek. Tears washed away the remnants of the man's walls. Pre-come drooled from the tip of his cock, resting fat against his stomach.

“One more time, Sweetheart.”

The final zap arched electricity into the glans of the man's penis. A split second later, Steve returned his fingers inside the man's clutching channel and vibrated against Alex's prostate. Come oozed from the man's cock. He strained against his bonds, orgasm rolling from his flushed cockhead.

Steve allowed him to settle into the feeling before unhooking the man's restraints and helping him the short distance to a warm bed where Steve already had washcloths waiting in a bowl of warm water. He stretched the man out, eased the gag free, and used the cloth to both soothe the man's skin and wipe away sweat, lube and come, allowing his submissive to float.

Once he had Alex clean, he stretched out beside his companion to pull the other man into his arms. Palms smoothed gently down his back. This was the most important part of kink. Connecting after the scene ended was as beautiful as the trust placed in his hands. So he whispered soothing words, praised his submissive's stamina, and thanked him for his trust.

Quiet stretched between them for a good twenty minutes before Alex started coming around again. He eased into a seated position and rubbed fingers through his hair. “That was incredible, Captain.”

“I'm glad you enjoyed our time together.”

Alex found his clothes neatly folded on a nearby chair and began to dress. It was in an off-hand manner he said, “There was a submissive at the introductions today. He was called the Soldier, I believe. I wondered if I could personally request him to sub for me.”

Something hot and bitter pushed out the good endorphins. “The Soldier hasn't been cleared for active duty. Also, he's an inexperienced submissive. Your preferences in kink are much too advanced for his level of knowledge and skill.”

“I would be gentle with him.”

“I'm sure you would, but this is non-negotiable.”

“Very well.” 

Something disappointed crowded the man's expression. Disappointed wasn't really the right word, though, and it was gone so quickly Steve wasn't sure he'd seen it at all. That was the trouble with Alexander Pierce, he thought. He couldn't read him. The man was slick as snake oil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Steve tops Alexander Pierce, and at the end, Alex asks about having Bucky bottom for him. Steve says that's not possible since Alex is much more advanced in his kink than Bucky is ready or. Alex is clearly disappointed. Steve wonders about Alex's interest in Bucky.


	8. What You Gonna Do With All that Junk, All That Junk Inside Your Trunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint gets some things off his chest to Nat. Meanwhile, Bucky and Steve have an epic confrontation about the ending of their marriage. Scott tells Bucky some things he really needs to hear to get any forward traction on his issues.
> 
> Fun Facts: Nat is almost exclusively portrayed as being able to out-drink everyone in this fandom because she's Russian, so I really, really wanted to write a scene where she just can't handle her liquor very well. That's where their drinking escapade comes from. Also, the scene from the following morning is loosely based on a scene from an old Peter O'Toole movie called High Spirits where a guy gets super drunk and wakes up thinking he's dead wherein he proceeds to tell his wife what he really thinks of her. It's a highly amusing movie.

Clint felt like a sponge that had been wrung free of water: light and arid. So what if his face was still on fire? Maybe he was the sort of guy who wouldn't be able to talk openly about his sexuality without discomfort, without the tiny thrill of shame from the remnants of body dysphoria.

Snuffling, he wiped the sleeve of his sweater over his face to steal away the evidence of his emotions and moved away from Mockingbird's office. For the first time in his life, he felt completely in synch, all three parts of himself, brain and body and soul, working in unison toward a single whole.

Then he rounded a corner and damn near ran into Natasha Romanoff. She leaned against the wall sipping a Black Russian and looking like she hadn't spent her life cut into three different cross-sections. He groaned. He groaned and turned on a heel to head the opposite direction.

“Well, hello to you, too, Cheddar,” she drawled before moving to keep pace with him. “Did I burn your fucking biscuits or something?”

“No,” he responded. “I was just in a really good mood.”

“My partner, Folks. Can't be in a good mood around his better half. I turn that frown upside down.”

“When was the last time anyone could escape your magnifying glass long enough to be in a good mood? You're a great partner, but sometimes, you're like a bully with a magnifying glass.”

“And you're the ant.”

“And I'm the ant,” he agreed.

Natasha broke a moment of silence by saying, “Our techs are cross-referencing the list of island staff against our database of known aliases. At this point, we have to consider that Barnes, having been spec ops, knows how to disappear if he wants to. He likely came here under a cover identity.”

“Any luck so far?”

“Couple of possible leads, but we're waiting on outside sources for verification. One alias has roots in the army. Another in the navy. Military wheels move at a glacial pace.”

“In other words, we'll be here all year, but Fury can't go forward with arresting the Black Cat until we have Mr. Barnes to testify to witnessing the murder.”

“That's a fair assessment.” She bumped their shoulders. “Whatever happened with you and Wanda? You were getting along like a house on fire, but now she's moping around like Eeyore.”

“There's nothing to tell.”

Nat made a very offense buzzer noise. “Wrong answer, Ahnold Bartonegger. Seriously. What happened? You haven't been with anyone as long as I've known you. Then this dish comes along and is sweet on you, and there's nothing to tell? Not buying no vowels, Pat Sajak.”

“Just drop it. Please.”

“Thing is, I'm not gonna. We can either do this the easy way or the hard way. Once my mind is fixed upon a goal, I get what I want. And guess what I want?”

“A bullet in the head?”

Her stare was penetrating.

“Jesus Christ, Natasha,” he exclaimed, “why can't you ever mind your own business.”

Without missing a beat, she responded, “Your happiness is my business.”

He muttered about a dog and a bone before huffing a heavy breath. “Fine. I'm not ready to get physical. Are you happy now?”

“Metaphorically or physically?”

“Metaphorically. My penis is completely healed and ready for action.”

They walked in silence for a while, emerging from the building and strolling toward the NEV Clint had left parked at the service entrance. He climbed inside, moved a bunch of junk out of the passenger seat, and started the engine to head home. Nat climbed in after him without spilling a drop of her drink.

After driving for a few moments, he said, “Look, getting close to people's different when you're trans. My dick ain't like a normal dick. Which isn't to say I don't love my dick. Best day of my life was waking up from surgery and realizing I was finally gonna feel normal. Most guys are growers. Mine-- God, I can't believe I'm telling you this.”

“I get the gist. You show instead of grow.”

“Also, I can't get an erection. They make pumps that feed into a tube inside the penis that can make it erect, but I chose not to have one. There can be a lot of post-op complications with the pumps. Long story short, she's gonna know I'm not-- That I'm not-- God, I can't even use inoffensive terminology myself; how am I gonna expect you to use sensitive language?”

“She'll know you were born taking a piss in the squat formation.”

He made a noise of acknowledgment. “I've dated since the operation, enough to know that me having been born with a vagina is a huge issue to a big percentage of people. Plus, I've only ever dated guys. How the Hell should I know how to date a girl?”

“So you were born straight--”

“Natasha.”

“Hey, Assface, I'm doing my best to understand here and am getting pretty sick of you expecting me to jump on the ally bandwagon without landing on my face a few times.”

He took a calming breath and let it out slowly. “That's fair.” After a moment's pause, he continued, “I was born a man whose hormonal wires got crossed during fetal development, and a bunch of chemicals conspired to give me a vagina instead of a penis. But there's all different ways a person can be trans or gender-queer. Not every trans person has body dysphoria. Not ever trans person needs to make their outsides represent their insides. Some people are happy on hormone therapy alone.

“The point being that assuming my trans issues are like everyone else's issues is a good way to hurt someone, however good our intentions are. Let the trans person define themselves to you, and do your best to use the gender pronouns they ask you to.”

She was quiet for a minute, both of them listening to the hum of the electric engine. “So you happened to be born a gay man who happened to possess a vagina. This is fucking confusing, Bojangles.”

“You think it's confusing for you? Try living it. Try explaining it to someone. Try knowing there's something wrong, that something inside you isn't connecting the way it should and then having the world tell you that you're a freak or that you're mentally ill or that you should just suck it up and live the way society tells you to live.”

Nat spanned the distance between them to cover his hand with hers, moving to lace their fingers together. She gave his fingers a tight squeeze. The touch startled him, but he soon sank into the comfort she offered. There was an easy camaraderie there that hadn't been before.

He parked in the maintenance parking lot, and they traveled the rest of the way to his house on foot. Keying inside, he dropped his keys on the table just inside the door and headed into the kitchen to get a glass of lemonade, surprised by the amount of ease he felt after opening up to Nat. Sometimes, she bordered on offensive, but at least she was trying.

“I'm still not clear on why you broke things off with Wanda.”

“I didn't break things off with her. Breaking things off would have implied we were an item.” He searched for the best way to say what was in his head. “There hasn't been anyone since my operation. At first, it was because I wasn't healed. Phalloplasty takes a long time to heal from. Then the sensation hadn't fully developed in my penis yet. After that, I was just so busy getting used to my body.”

“This thing with Wanda should be good for you, then. You're scared. I get that. I don't understand it. I've watched you chase down armed assailants without a lick of fear, but I get it,” she reiterated. “Thing is, it's time for you to stop letting that fear get in your way. Time to man up and go after what will make you happiest. Let me give you a hint; it isn't law enforcement or loneliness.”

He whipped around to face her and froze.

“Shit, I stuck my foot in it again, didn't I?”

“I love law enforcement.”

“You did,” she said. “People outgrow careers. 

Clint didn't know what to say to that. How she'd recognized a growing discontent he hadn't been able to put into words himself was frightening. He loved taking bad people off the streets. He loved protecting the innocent. He did not love all the ways in which he was expected to be a chameleon, to change his skin based upon the situation he found himself in, in order to bring perpetrators to justice. It was hard enough on most days keeping Clint Barton straight let alone throwing on added cover identities and various undercover operations.

“Sounds like it's time to get drunk and make bad decisions,” she said.

The comment startled a bark of laughter out of him. “You don't want to do this, Romanoff. You'll wake up crying tears of regret.”

Her expression flattened. “I'm Russian. Or I was. Don't tell a Russian how to handle her liquor.”

Nat found his bottle of Makers Mark stashed behind the cushions of his sofa in a startlingly brief amount of time. She cracked the wax seal, found two shot glasses, and poured one for each of them.

“To personal discoveries,” she toasted.

“To your epic hangover in the morning.”

They downed the shots in unison.

XXXXX

The following morning, Clint picked his way over the pile of police detective passed out in his living room. A soft snore escaped her, a clear indication she was still alive. That along with the puddle of drool that had collected beneath her slack mouth.

Humming the melody from Disney's Robin Hood under his breath, he brewed a pot of coffee, scrubbed moisturizer into his face while waiting for it to finish percolating, and poured himself a cup. He stepped over her again to reach the ladder leading up into his loft so he could finish getting ready.

Below him, Nat groaned. “Am I alive?” Her voice sounded rough.

He didn't respond.

“Oh shit, I'm dead. This is Hades.”

Clint dragged a tank top on over his head and pulled around until he located a tube of sunscreen. No way was he turning into old leather before his eightieth year. After dressing, he dropped down from the loft again, took a sip of coffee, and padded into the kitchen to drop some bread into his toaster.

“Well, as long as I'm dead, I should tell you that I can't stand the way you chew your food. It drives me up a fucking wall listening to you sip coffee as your lips try to vacuum up the liquid. And that mole on the back of your shoulder. There's a hair sprouting out of it. Can't you shave that fucker?

“You're impossible to get close to and have insanely high expectations of the people around you. How about we back that down to Earth, yeah? Try living among us normal folks for a change. You have the driest sense of humor I've ever encountered. The Gobi-fucking-desert is envious of your dryness.

“And you're repressed. Unclench those ass cheeks, Barton, and take a shit for once in your life. That would go a long way in improving...”

He shoved a cup of coffee into Natasha's hands.

“Wait. I'm not dead?”

“No, but I wouldn't make any future plans.”

“Is there fur on my tongue?” She extended her tongue to make sure he got a good look. “I feel like there's fur on my growing on my taste buds.”

“Next time, try not drinking your body weight in Bourbon.”

XXXXX

Later, Clint found himself pruning apple trees near the staff bar. He paused to take his shirt off and mop sweat from his face and upper body, the garment already damp with perspiration. Not until after he'd pulled the shirt back on did he recognize the absence of discomfort from appearing topless.

So he continued with his work, dragging branch clippings back to an NEV for disposal and glancing up only when he became aware of Pietro's approach. The other man walked with a swagger that attracted attention, and Clint suddenly realized that said attraction didn't affect him anymore. It would have before getting treated for body dysphoria. Before his operations, he would have been all over that.

Instead, he felt nothing but mild curiosity. 

Pietro wasn't there to be inconspicuous. Rather, the man placed himself between Clint and his destination, making Clint step around him in order to heave the cut branches atop the pile he'd already loaded. Only then did he stop to acknowledge the guy.

“You need something?”

“My sister is a sensitive soul, you understand? When she cares about someone, she does so with her whole heart. Not a sliver of her heart. Not a piece of her heart, but her whole heart. You are going to hurt her, and I will hate you for the pain you cause.”

“I wouldn't,” exclaimed Clint.

“You are going to hurt her,” he reiterated. “Please, treat her with care. Know that I will protect my sister at all cost, and when you cause her pain, I will be the one you answer to.”

“How can you be so sure that I will?”

“Because you have already made the first cut.”

The last time he'd seen Wanda had been while walking away through the surf. He'd turned back once to look at her. She had stood amidst the whitecaps limned by the sun, and he'd been struck dumb by her beauty. Her eyes, though, had been filled with sadness, and it was only then, after having it pointed out to him, that he understood that her sadness had been deeper; it had been pain.

“Fuck.”

XXXXX

For the third time, Bucky nearly brained himself tripping over a present sitting directly in the path of his front door. He caught himself against the opposite wall. Huffing, he turned and peered at the offending item, a package wrapped in plain brown paper with no return address but all the hallmarks of having been shipped via UPS.

Scooping it up, he returned to his suite to unwrap the package. Inside, he found two smaller boxes, one containing a Leica camera and the other a high-priced lens.

He giggled.

“Holy shit.”

The fingertips he grazed across the camera's box were reverent. His own camera was serviceable. It got the job done but was also badly in need of repairs and a good cleaning and couldn't take photos with the same high-definition clarity that anything from Leica was capable of capturing.

However, the reality of the situation toppled his child-like enthusiasm before he could tear open the box to test the camera out. Who in their right mind would give him a twenty-five thousand dollar camera? Logic could only put forth one name: Steve Rogers. He was pretty sure that working as a master dominant on an exclusive sex island came with a lot of digits attached to his salary.

Steve, therefore, was the only one who could reasonably afford something so expensive, and that meant his ex-husband was trying to say something. His ex's presents had always said something. Sometimes they meant 'I'm sorry for forgetting our date.' Sometimes it was 'I'm sorry for losing my temper and making a scene.' Then there were special times when his gifts said, 'We haven't been getting along very well lately, and I'm hoping this thing will smooth relations over even though I can't be arsed to apologize like a normal human being.'

His ex-husband hated apologizing. And didn't have a romantic bone in his body. Bucky could see the pattern now. The guitar, the picks, the camera and lens. They were all gifts to assuage Steve's guilty conscience about how things had ended between them.

The guy was likely hoping a twenty-five thousand dollar camera bought a lot of forgiveness, and suddenly, Bucky was angry. Every jumbled emotion surrounding their divorce roared back from the depths of his wounded heart, and he leaped to his feet, gathering both boxes in his arms and slamming the suite door shut behind him.

Steve Rogers did not get to soothe his own conscience by buying Bucky's forgiveness.

The fact that his ex-husband was in the middle of brunch with a handful of guests didn't stop him from tearing open the door to the veranda. It did not stop him from putting the items down next to Steve's plate, and it did not stop him from airing their dirty laundry in front of strangers.

“No, Steve. You don't get to feel better about divorcing me by buying me shit.”

Steve looked like a deer in headlights. First time in that man's goddamn life he was stunned speechless. He'd been reduced to opening and closing his mouth like a fish gasping for breath.

“You left me, remember,” Bucky snapped. “You broke my goddamn heart. Five years, Steve. I haven't learned how to get over you in five fucking years. My wedding ring is in the safe back in my room. You declared us done. Not me. Now it's my turn to tell you that you don't get to come back into my life and worm your way into the mess of my feelings.”

Finally, the man found the presence of mind to speak. “I didn't buy this for you, Bucky.”

“Who else would?”

“Look, can we do this somewhere else? I have guests.”

He spread his arms wide, too furious to stop the rocket after launch. “We're doing this right here. Let's tell them how I supported you when your body was riddled with disease. Or about the way I took care of you day in and day out because you were too weak from fever chills to get out of bed. Oh, I know. Let's tell them how I turned down a damn good job at Rolling Stones because it required too much travel and would have left you home alone without any support.

“Then,” he continued, “then we're telling them how I stood on a witness stand and pleaded with the jury not to send my husband to prison for beating a guy within an inch of his life for being a homophobic fucker. After that--”

“Bucky, please.”

He carried on as though Steve hadn't spoken. “--we're telling them how you got out of prison only to blindside me with divorce papers and some bullshit excuse about getting married too young and needing to explore yourself. How you told me straight to my face that I wasn't good enough in bed to satisfy your needs.”

“That's not what I said,” Steve finally exploded.

“Oh yeah? What'd you say, then?”

“Our sex life was practically non-existent. Nothing I did helped. I tried getting you to open up, but you wouldn't, so we sat down and had a conversation about what your parents forced on you, and I gave you the choice to see a therapist. You refused. I filed for divorce papers.”

“Why the fuck would I see a therapist, Steve? The last goddamn therapist I went to made me watch gay porn and shoved needles in my fingertips in an effort to train me not to be turned on by gay sex! All the while, my parents sat in the waiting room, and they wouldn't save me. I begged them to save me, Stevie, but they wouldn't save me.

“Besides, it's not like you couldn't use some fucking therapy yourself for that God awful temper of yours, so I'm calling pot meet fucking kettle here.”

Someone cleared their throat.

“So you take your goddamn money and your goddamn gifts and shove them where the sun don't shine, because I am done letting you toy with my emotions. You were so goddamn busy trying to prove yourself back then that you lost sight of what your ma always told us. Be good men, she said. No matter what, we were supposed to be good men.

“Well, you're not anymore. You're not a good man. She'd be so fucking disappointed in you.”

The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to call them back. There was going for the throat. Then, there was what he'd just done. Horrified, he scrambled to grip Steve's shoulder and somehow apologize, only Steve jerked away from him.

Cyke, whose arrival came as a whirlwind, grabbed Bucky's arm to drag him toward the door while saying to their supremely uncomfortable audience, “Brunch is adjourned. You'll find a seminar going on in Conference Room Three if you would like to fill your time.”

“Steve, I didn't mean-- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

Cyke had zero remorse about dragging him through the door, not that Bucky put up much of a fight, at which point, he marched Bucky down the hall to an empty classroom and slammed the door behind them. It sounded like canon fire in the quiet of the deserted hall.

“What was that?” Scott's voice was tight with control. “Need I remind you that you are a guest here?”

Bucky opened his mouth to speak but nothing emerged.

“How dare you.” A sword couldn't have cut deeper than the edge on Scott Summer's words. “Whatever your personal beef is with Steve, how dare you humiliate him in front of guests. There is a difference between having it out with someone and interrupting them while they're at work. Like it or not, this is Steve's work. You stormed into his office and made a scene in front of his clientele.”

“You have no idea what kind of history we have.”

“Don't I? Who do you think was there for him whenever your anniversary rolled around? Who do you think kept him from drinking until he puked on Valentine's Day?”

“You don't get to make me feel bad about that. I'm not the one who did the leaving.”

“Maybe not, but you're the one with the chronic habit of going for the kill. Steve may have divorced you, but stop pretending like you're blameless in the whole fiasco. Your refusal to get any help left Steve with zero good options and only two choices: stay and watch the love of his life destroy himself because he wouldn't acknowledge the deep-seated issues he'd been burying for decades or leave.”

“What?”

Scott looked disappointed. “Come on, Barnes. You might be from Gopher Hole, Indiana, but you're not dumb. Steve was your crutch. As long as you had him enabling you, you weren't ever going to stop avoiding the things your parents put you through. He'd already tried everything else. The only thing left do was watch your slow death.”

“That's not—”

“You're here under an old military identity. That means you're running from something. You've been running your entire life. Don't you think it's time to stop running? Isn't running in circles exhausting?”

Bucky felt a little like a car stalled on train tracks.

Exasperated, Scott threw up his hands. “Do you really think I didn't do my homework on you? Steve is important to me. Do you think I'd allow just anyone to come on this island and upset him?”

Tension suddenly ebbed from Bucky as the fight went out of him, and he leaned back against a wall. “What do you want from me?”

“Get your act together or leave the island. Talk to Steve like a civilized adult willing to confront his issues or never contact him again because the two of you are like fire and gasoline. You burn so hot, but your flame extinguishes quickly without the kindling necessary to nurture the ember.”

“I think it might be best if I just leave.” No idea where the fuck he was gonna go, but he wasn't sure he could be on the same island as Steve without fireworks exploding.

“If that's what you want, travel can be arranged back to the mainland.”

“That's what I want.”

Only he didn't feel very certain. Some part of him wailed about tucking tail and running from his problems. Again. When was he ever going to stop running when things got messy? Also, there was Warren and Brock to consider. He might feel bad skipping out on them.

XXXXX

Steve choked back snot clogging his nose only to be greeted with Pepper's comment of “That's gross” and having a tissue shoved in his hand. He accepted it and blew as much as he could. God, he hated crying. He hated crying over Bucky Barnes most of all.

“Why is that man always so damn accurate when it comes to hitting where it hurts?”

“That's what happens when you've known someone half your life,” she responded with a sympathetic hand resting against his back.

“Why does he even get to me so much still? We've been done for five years!”

“Maybe you aren't as done as you thought you were. This could be a good thing, you know.”

He hoped the look she got was withering.

She was quick to hold up her hands and explain, “I'm just saying it's possible you're both here for a reason. Don't misunderstand. I'm not saying you should get back together, but this is an opportunity to finally close that chapter of your life. Closure is important.”

“God, you don't know, Pepper. You have no idea how much that guy infuriates me.”

“People we love tend to make us feel wild extremes,” she said with one of her secretive smiles, the kind that said she was plotting something devious. “Look, all I'm saying is that you neither really took the time to have a proper conversation following the divorce. There has clearly been a lot of miscommunication on both sides of the aisle. Maybe you could take this opportunity to clear the air.”

Pepper was crazy. What she said made sense, but she was positively crazy. The chances of Bucky and him being able to have an adult dialogue about why their relationship ended seemed an unobtainable hope, but it was clearly a conversation they needed to have, especially if what Bucky said was true, about him still having the wedding band and maybe carrying a torch.

First seeing Bucky in the intake center, he'd thought they didn't mean much to each other anymore. Sure, there would always be a part of him that loved the guy. They'd shared too much for him to ever feel otherwise, but he'd been wrong about not meaning much to each other. He'd been so damn wrong.

And didn't he owe Bucky? At the very least, he owed him a chance to say his piece.

So it was with a sense of trepidation that Steve asked JA.R.V.I.S to set up a meeting with Bucky. While waiting for a response, he looked at the boxes sitting on his kitchen table. Someone had spent a great deal of money purchasing the camera and lens but had no way of guess who the secret admirer was. 

Ten minutes later, J.A.R.V.I.S informed him Mr. Buchanan had scheduled a flight off the island and was in the process of packing. While he was pretty sure Jay wasn't supposed to access the inside of an employee's living space only to share the information with a thirty party, he couldn't bring himself to offer a reprimand when it gave him a head start.

Two hours later, he stood near an outgoing jet, stepping between Bucky, who was laden with luggage, and the boarding stairs. It struck Steve that he'd forgotten how much watching his ex strut toward him made his heart flutter. Something about the way he moved set Steve's libido on a hair trigger release.

The second Bucky saw him, though, the guy tensed. “Oh God, what? Do you want an apology? I think we've proven how ineffective apologies are between us?”

“I'm not here for an apology,” responded Steve, “but I think we need to talk. We both have things we need to get off our chests before we go our separate ways, so I'd really like for you to come back to my apartment and sit down like two adults.”

“Yeah, well, people in the Sahara want water.”

“Bucky, please.” His voice was whisper soft. “I'm trying. I'll pay for you to take another flight if it's about the money. Um. Not that you need me to pay.”

“I do, actually. Part time maintenance at a bowling alley doesn't pay great.” Bucky shrugged.

“Will you sit down with me? I don't want you to leave until we've both-- God, we were friends for such a long time before things got physical, and then with your parents kicking you out and moving in together and things getting intense. Please. Let's just talk.”

“Fine. If it means that much to you.”

“It does.”

Then, with cooler heads, Steve took Bucky's duffel because it was weighing on his ex's weaker arm, and they caught an NEV back across the island to the little bungalow where Steve spent most of his free time. The plum orchard was full of ripe fruit, the scent of growing things perfuming the air. They sat, not at the outdoor table but inside where the Leica camera and lens rested on the table.

An awkward sot of tension infused them as Steve puttered around the kitchen making tea. He only remembered at the last second that Bucky wasn't really a tea drinker and grabbed a box of Numi chocolate tea to play to Bucky's incredible sweet tooth. After preparing the service, he settled the tray on the low coffee table between them and made his ex a cup.

“Look,” Bucky began without touching his tea cup, “I'm sorry about the way it happened, but I'm not sorry about the sentiment. You can't just buy your way back into my life to make yourself feel better.”

“I didn't buy the camera and lens.”

“Who else would? That's not a cheap camera.”

“Can we set that aside for now?”

A moment of silence stretched their patience.

“I know I hurt you, Bucky.”

“You think?”

Steve took a deep breath for patience. “You're not making this easy.”

“Clearing your conscience shouldn't be easy.”

“Jesus Christ, Barnes, you're like hugging a giant, angry porcupine. I'm trying to say that I'm sorry and that I still love you!” A hand slapped over his mouth when he realized what he'd said.

“Wait. Back up. You what?”


	9. safe Sex is Great Sex; Better Wear A Latex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky do some things. Clint and Wanda do some things. Things are done in this chapter.

“I still love you, Bucky.” A sick, twisting sensation cramped his insides.

“Five years,” breathed Bucky. “For five years, I dreamed of you saying that to me.”

Desperate for something to occupy his mouth that wasn't word-vomit, he sipped his tea and awaited clarity through the fog of shock dulling his brain. It was a long time coming. “I'm never gonna stop loving you, Buck. You gotta know that. You were my world, but I think that was part of the problem. I became dependent on you. Got to the point, where I didn't think I could live without you.”

“Guess I just don't see how that's a fucking problem. Did you hear me complain about it? I liked taking care of you. It made me feel needed. Ma always said she thought I shoulda been born a girl so I could go into nursing or something. Born care giver, she called me.”

“Wait. There's no law against male nurses, you know.”

Bucky gave him a skeptical look. “Put your thinking cap on, Rogers. Girls are nurses and teachers. Boys are construction workers, bankers, and doctors. Least that's what Ma always claimed. You remember how much she shit a brick when I wanted to go into photography?”

The remembrance startled a laugh out of Steve. He lifted his voice a few octaves to mimic Winnie Barnes. “Photography is a fine art, James. Real men do not engage in something as soft as fine arts. How will you ever provide for a wife and children taking silly pictures?”

They shared a moment of laughter before Bucky said, “God, you're frighteningly good at that impression.” Then, silence. For the first time in a long time, the silence was almost comfortable.

“God, Stevie, when did we end up like this?”

“Life got in the way, I s'ppose. We didn't work for a lot of reasons. You're terrible at communicating and self-care. God, there were days when I wanted to just choke you for letting your parents indoctrination get the better of you.”

“And your punk ass was always on the defensive feeling like you had something to prove. Your temper's real bad, Steve. Pulling you outta fights was like a second job. That and it always irritated the piss outta me when you claimed to be fine even though you clearly weren't. I was always, like, 'just tell me what hurts, so I can give you the right meds.'”

Both men finally took a deep breath. 

Bucky sipped his tea and did a double-take. “Jesus, the fuck you give me? Liquid crack?”

“Chocolate tea,” Steve responded, smiling around the rim of his tea cup. Bucky had always claimed to love the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “I remember your sweet tooth.”

Another moment of silence arrived.

Finally, Bucky asked, “What do we do, Stevie?”

“Don't go.” It was probably the most heartfelt thing Steve had said to Bucky since his arrival. “You should be here. I think the staff could really help you get in touch with your sexuality. Even if you don't want that with me. Even if that guy you've been seeing--”

“Who? Brock?”

“You've been cuddling him around the island the past few days.”

“Wait, are you jealous?”

“No!”

Bucky looked completely skeptical. “Shit, Brock is great, but we're just two repressed guys damaged by their parents' religions finding comfort in each other. Yeah, I slept with him, but I didn't keep talking to him because of that. I guess maybe he makes me feel like I might be okay some day. He's me a few years down the road.”

Steve spanned the distance between them to settle his hand over Bucky's. “I'm glad. Him being a source of comfort for you is so wonderful. Do you want to stay? Keep working with Scott? The two of you seem to have come to some kind of understanding.”

“I want to stay, Sir, but not because of Scott.”

Breath caught when Bucky bowed his head, when he submitted, when the man slipped from his chair onto his knees and clasped hands behind his back. And God, wasn't that just about every wet dream come to life? Sable hair parted over Bucky's neck, leaving the nape bare and kissable.

Slowly, he settled his palm against the other man's head. “This isn't a good idea,” he warned.

“Never stopped us before.”

It was a terrible, awful, no good idea, but Bucky? Bucky was Steve's kryptonite. Didn't matter that he knew how badly it could turn out; it only mattered that the man he loved needed him, wanted him. His hand cupped the other man's chin to urge his head up. They made eye contact.

“Tell me what you need.”

“You,” Bucky whispered.

“Safe word?”

“Traffic lights.”

“No gags or demeaning language,” asserted Steve.

“Please tell me how beautiful I am.”

“So, so beautiful. God, looking at you takes my breath away.”

Steve pushed his chair back from the table. “Come closer. I want to touch you.”

Bucky knee-walked over until he was perched between Steve's spread legs, and Steve smoothed the man's hair back from his face, gathered it into a pony tail, and maneuvered Bucky's head to expose the long column of his throat. A tiny scar marred the skin next to his Adam's apple from playing pirates as kids. Steve's wooden stick had gouged him. There had been so much blood that Steve had run home to his ma crying about Bucky bleeding to death.

“These lips drive me wild.” He pressed the pad of his thumb against Bucky's bottom lip and pulled it down to expose white teeth. Then, without further warning, he leaned forward and fused their mouths together. He'd forgotten what it was like to kiss Bucky Barnes, the instant zing shooting up his spine, the way Bucky always inhaled a breath just as he opened his mouth to allow Steve to deepen the kiss.

Their mouths were starving for one another, the desperate crack of dry ground dying for just one drop of rain. Swallowing a mewl, he peppered kisses along Bucky's jaw, brushed the tip of his nose alongside Bucky's, and pressed one quick kiss to the man's vulnerable eyelid.

And Bucky? Bucky tilted his face with parted lips, a man at prayer.

“So fucking beautiful it hurts, Jelly Belly. Why'd I ever let you go? How'd I get so dumb?”

“Shut up and kiss me.” His ex-husband's voice was raw.

Steve tapped him twice against the chin. “Is that how you talk to your dom?”

A smile spread the other man's lips. “Please, kiss me, Sir.”

Another kiss made them hungrier for each other. Steve licked into Bucky's mouth, and their tongues touched. The static that birthed lightning. He darted into the velvet warmth, tasted chocolate tea and Bucky and feared becoming drunk on both, and Steve used his grip on the man's hair to force him to lean backward. It exposed the long arch of his ex-husband's body.

“Let's get this out of the way, yeah?”

“Please.”

Steve lifted Bucky's shirt over his head. His fingers immediately went to the sleeve of tattoos covering Bucky's scars where he traced geometric lines, where he got lost in a man sloughing off his own skin to emerge raw and vulnerable on the other side. Next, he became lost momentarily in the play of muscle across the other man's abdomen. Bucky had always kept himself up. Didn't matter that he was pushing forty. He was still as hard as rock.

“Your knees must be starting to hurt, Jelly Belly. Let's get you up off the floor.”

With liquid grace, Bucky rose, still keeping his head down and arms behind his back.

“Open your jeans for me. Let me see you.”

His submissive did. The button popped open. The soft hiss of zipper teeth opening followed. Moments later, fabric shimmied down Bucky's legs to pool at his feet, and the man was left bare. His cock was firming up with interest but not quite hard.

“Fuck,” Steve said like the word had been punched out of him. “Look at you.”

Color kissed Bucky's cheeks. His cock twitched over the praise.

Steve reached forward, clasped his hands on either of Bucky's hips, and pulled him a few steps closer. His nose brushed the length of Bucky's cock, dragged up the shaft, and buried in the nest of springy curls at the root of his penis. He inhaled the rich musk, the scent of clean skin and sweat and sex, and his ex-husband shuddered beneath the contact and offered a quiet “fuck” of his own.

“You like showing yourself off, huh? I enjoyed your display during the presentation. The way you came alive. It was like you could see yourself in a new light. Go down the hall to the door at the end. Lay face down on my bed with our ass in the air, and wait for me.”

“You're not coming now?”

“Would you rather not be apart from me right now?”

Bucky chewed his bottom lip.

“Communicate with me, Jelly Belly. Tell me what you need.”

“I don't want be away from you.”

A flare of joy swept through him over Bucky's willingness to communicate. Being a dominant wasn't about barking orders. Sure, giving orders and taking control was a part of the dynamic, but these quiet moments where trust was built were equally as important. Bucky trusted him to take care of his needs.

“Then we'll go together.”

Rising, he cupped the other man's elbow to guide him down the hall and pushed into the master bedroom. A king-sized bed, dressed up in cobalt sheets and a dove gray comforter, waited there. None of his clients had ever played here. None of his clients had ever been inside. Not even Scott. This was something different, something special, a line they might not be able to cross back from.

“Get on your hands and knees on the bed.”

Bucky complied. His posture radiated nerves, as they were moving into uncertain territory now.

“Color?”

“Green.”

“If it turns yellow, don't even wait for me to check in. You just say yellow, and we do something else.”

“Understood, Sir.”

“Show yourself off to me. Reach behind and spread your cheeks open. Let me see you.”

The hands that reached back trembled. Fingers clenched into the generous muscle there and spread Bucky wide, wide enough Steve could see the dusky hole hiding there through the scattering of hair dusting the man's crack and balls. The muscle fluttered gently.

Steve stood at the foot of the bed and looked his fill, from the sweep of Bucky's back—his hips narrowed into a trim waist and flared into broad shoulders—to the thick thighs corded with muscle supporting his ass as it waved in the air. Before him was beauty. He expressed as much with soft words and reverence when he knee-walked onto the bed and smoothed palms up his submissive's back.

Finally, he molded his frame around Bucky's in order to kiss the nape of his neck revealed by the rivulets of hair flowing over either side of his throat. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin, and the man beneath him shivered. And so, so slowly, he started leaving a trail of kisses and bites down the exposed flesh until he could clench his teeth in a generous mouthful of Bucky's ass.

“I love your ass,” he said. “Used to love watching it jiggle whenever I slapped our groins together. Watching you walk in front of me was always a test of will. Kept wanting to grab hold of a handful, really dig my fingertips in the muscle and hold on. You've got such a great ass.”

A shiver raced through the other man's body. “Thank you, Sir.”

The tip of Steve's wet tongue traced the crack of his ex-husband's ass and ghosted across the tight muscle located there. The results were unexpected.

Bucky reared up from his elbows and cried, “Red!”

Steve immediately backed off and held both hands in the air. “What do you need? What can I do?”

“You shouldn't--” Bucky's chest became the barrel-chest of a thoroughbred; it heaved to work lungs like bellows, shining coat flecked with froth and sweat. “You can't-- Stevie, you don't do things like that. That's dirty. You can't put your tongue there.”

Getting shot would have hurt less than combination of shock and horror in Bucky's tone. “Can I touch you? I'd like to hold you while we talk.”

Bucky considered before nodding.

Steve moved to the head of the bed and pulled the other man into his arms to feel the tremors racing through his submissive's body. “We won't do anything you aren't comfortable with. Ever.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because a lot of people think it feels good. Because it's intimate, and I like being intimate with you. There are so many nerve endings so close to the skin in your anus that using my tongue is just another way to stimulate them.”

“But why would you want to? It's not--” He appeared to struggle finding words. “It's bad when I let you put your dick inside me. But it's not so bad for you to be the one to use your dick. Putting your tongue in there is even worse for you than it is for me to take your dick in there. It's wrong.”

“Who says its wrong?”

“Ma. Dad. Dr. Sofen. God.”

Steve kissed the crown of Bucky's head. “How often did your parents and Dr. Sofen lie to you?”

“A lot.”

“Do you think maybe this is another one of those lies to control how you used your body? I'm not trying to convince you to let me eat you out. Just trying to get you to see a different angle.”

Bucky was quiet for a few moments. “They lied a lot,” he eventually agreed.

“We don't have to do anything else today if you don't want to. Our play can end here. I can hold you for as long as you'd like. Or we can try something different. Take a few minutes and see how you feel. Then, we can decide what we'd like to do.”

They rested together in silence for a while, and God, Steve hadn't thought he would ever get to feel this close to Bucky again. The warmth of the man against him thawed something he hadn't even realized had been frozen since the divorce. It left him feeling content for the first time in a long time.

Eventually, Bucky stirred, a determined straightness to his shoulders. He moved back onto his knees, widened his legs, and reached behind him to spread his cheeks apart. Once he'd assumed the position, he said, “I don't want them to win anymore. Show me what it feels like.”

Pride filled him to bursting, pride for Bucky's strength and determination. This was a new side to his ex-husband. The Bucky of before never would have found himself in amongst the maelstrom. He never would have been able to continue with their sexual activities after a breakdown like that.

“You were so, so good using your colors, Jelly Belly. Do that again any time you feel you need it.”

That said, he buried his face between Bucky's parted cheeks, laving his tongue from the man's balls up his perineum. Bucky's cock had gone soft during his meltdown, so Steve cupped the weight in his hand and used his thumb to stimulate the glans.

By the time his tongue actually pressed against the furled muscle, Bucky's cock was beginning to grow blood-hot and engorged again. Steve curled his tongue around the rim, thrust gently against the clench until the muscle eased enough for him to work his way inside, and slowly, his lover began allowing the sensations inside his body.

It started with a breathless whimper when Steve tugged against the rim of Bucky's hole. The more he laved, the looser his lover's body became, and not just with the relaxation of Bucky's asshole. His thighs stopped trembling. His spine lowered into a beautiful curve. Then, on a particularly deep thrust of Steve's tongue, the man rocked back to greet him, unable to swallow little sounds of enjoyment.

“Talk to me, Jelly Belly. How do you feel?”

“Good,” rasped Bucky. “Real good, Stevie. I didn't know. I didn't know it could be like this.”

Steve reached over into his nightstand drawer and came away with a bottle of lube. After slicking a finger, he teased the man's rim before pushing inside. His tongue darted around his own finger, and when Bucky reared up again, it wasn't from panic but from Steve's finger working his prostate.

Quick circles of the pad of his finger brought Bucky to the point of trembling, but he didn't reach for himself, didn't try to work a palm over his engorged cock, simply let it rest, fat and flushed, against his own stomach as a bead of pre-come snacked down the underside.

“Steve. Stevie. Fuck. If you don't stop, you're gonna make me come.”

“And that's a bad thing how?”

“I want to touch you.” Bucky was quick to remember his manners and corrected him. “Please, can I touch you, Sir? It's been such a long time.”

“Go ahead, then.”

Steve moved away and quickly undressed. When he rejoined Bucky on the bed, he stretched out on his back and looked down the length of his own nude flesh. A blond trail of hair led down to his groin where his cock expressed its extreme interest in what they'd been doing. Contrary to popular belief, Steve did not normally get erections while working with clients. It was never about his sexual satisfaction. It was about giving them the release of being controlled.

But the way Bucky looked at him reminded him what it felt like to be wanted just for himself. There was no artifice there, just a sense of awe in the parting of Bucky's lips and the sharp observation behind the man's eyes. No one could make him feel sexy the way Bucky Barnes could.

“Such a good boy,” Steve breathed while running his fingers through the thick mane of Bucky's hair.

Bucky, sitting back on his heels, didn't seem sure where to start first, so Steve cupped the nape of his neck and pulled the other man into a kiss. The kiss was all tongue and teeth and want but served the purpose in distracting his ex-husband from whatever reservations he'd been dealing with, as Bucky's palm finally smoothed down his chest on its way south.

His mouth soon followed, pausing to lavish attention on each pebbled nipple before moving down to dip his tongue into Steve's navel. It made Steve shiver. With anticipation and pure need.

And fuck, he'd forgotten what it felt like to have Bucky's mouth on the tender flesh of his cockhead. He'd forgotten how fucking good it felt when this man pushed his tongue beneath the foreskin to reach the ultra-sensitive flesh beneath. He sure as Hell had forgotten the man's lips closing around the foreskin and pulling gently only to push his tongue inside to find Steve's slit.

For all his worldliness and all the partners he'd had since the divorce, nothing could compare to the way Bucky Barnes gave head. No one else knew how sensitive he was when his foreskin was played with. Nothing else could compare. Steve was determined to feel embarrassed by how quickly Bucky reduced him to a quivering mess later.

Finally, Bucky pushed back the foreskin and enveloped the glans in the heat of his mouth. It took every ounce of willpower not to fuck into that wet heat, not to grip Bucky's hair, hold his head immobile, and fuck his mouth with a desperation he hadn't felt in years.

“So good,” he murmured. “So fucking good, Jelly Belly.”

The erotic sounds produced when Bucky bobbed on his shaft nearly sent him over the edge. Then Bucky took him down, deep into his mouth until the cockhead forced its way into the man's throat, and Steve keened. He fisted a handful of his lover's hair and keened.

“Still like being deep-throated, huh?” There was a smirk on Bucky's face.

Steve, still reeling and attempting to find his collected demeanor, snorted laughter and pushed his lover's head to the side playfully. “You know my weakness. And who taught you your manners?”

“Sir,” Bucky intoned while lowering his eyes coyly.

Silken strands of hair caressed his fingers while Steve sifted through the mass. “What do you need?”

“Fuck me, Sir? No one else has fucked me but you.”

Understanding oozed like molasses. In five years, Bucky hadn't bottomed for anyone. No one had been there to open him up, to fill him, to show him the beauty of being so intimately joined with another person. God, what had he done? Leaving Bucky alone with his traumas and unable to navigate his needs without someone there helping him realize it was okay.

“Oh Bucky.” He cupped the man's cheek. “But you love bottoming.”

“Only with you. Only-- I'm not supposed to love it. It doesn't mean anything if it isn't with you.”

Something inside Steve cracked hearing those words. What the fuck had he been thinking when he'd convinced himself that Bucky would move on from the divorce? How the fuck had he gotten things so wrong? How had he ever abandoned this beautiful man?

“On your back. I'm going to take care of you. I'm gonna make you feel so, so good.”

Bucky rolled onto his back to get comfortable while Steve retrieved a condom.

Preparation was something he intended to take his time with since it had been so long for Bucky. He coated his fingers with slick and circled the man's opening. It was still loose and sloppy from his tongue, so pushing two fingers inside wasn't difficult. There was plenty of give to the muscle, and his lover didn't seem to be in any kind of discomfort, so he quickly worked a third finger inside.

Fingertips grazed the man's prostate, causing him to jump. They returned to circle and stimulate that bundle of nerves, and each time he tapped it, a new bead of pre-come oozed from the man's slit where it gathered by his navel. Steve couldn't help himself and leaned over to lap it up and suckle momentarily on the crown of Bucky's cock.

When he finally had the man writing beneath him, he rolled a condom on and slicked himself, finally pushed into the enveloping clutch of Bucky's body. The man stiffened at first but quickly relaxed into the sensations and wound his legs around Steve's slim waist.

“Feels real good, Stevie.”

Steve bottomed out and remained motionless to give his lover time to adjust. He didn't move until Bucky gave him permission, and even then, it was just a gentle pulsing of his hips while the muscle of his lover's ass rippled around him. It was all-consuming, being inside this man, and he gently rested their foreheads together while reaching for some sense of self-control.

“Stevie, stop holding back and fuck me.”

“Such a bossy bottom.” But there was fondness in his voice.

He cupped the backs of Bucky's thighs and pushed his legs up against his chest, allowing Steve to sink deeper on the next inward thrust. He sat back on his heels and rocked into the man, drove himself into the tight heat and pressure until he felt his spine lighting up with sensation. Every inward thrust punched a sound of delight from his lover's body.

Things slid into a blur of sensation, the sweat of their bodies slicking them, Bucky's cock skating across Steve's abs when he leaned down to instigate another kiss, the liquid glide of their lower halves joining and pulling apart, the erotic slap of flesh every time his balls smacked into Bucky's ass.

He dropped his head onto his lover's shoulder as Bucky braced a hand against the headboard to avoid every thrust banging his head against the wood. Bucky's free hand clutched Steve's ass to encourage his forward motions. And it was everything hot and wanton. It was hedonistic but so, so tender.

Steve sat back on his heels again and pulled Bucky's lower half onto his lap so he was thrusting up into him. It allowed his cockhead to hammer into the man's prostate until his lover was practically wailing with need, and fuck, wasn't that the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. Bucky had never opened up like this when they'd been married. He'd never allowed himself to be so expressive.

He knew. He knew Bucky was getting close the way his cock was drooling a steady stream of pre-come, the way the man's ass tightened around him deliciously.

“Let go, Buck. I got you. Not gonna let you fall. Just let it happen.”

Moisture leaked from the corner of the man's eye and dripped down his temple. Moments later, and with Steve's hand working his cock in concert with his thrusts, Bucky stiffened. His cries reached a crescendo. He arched, and ribbons of come spurted between their bodies.

The clenching of all those muscles, watching Bucky finally let go, it was enough for Steve to follow with a series of jerky thrusts as he emptied himself into the condom. Nothing had ever left him feeling so satisfied than experiencing this kind of intimacy with Bucky.

Later, both men lethargic and unwilling to move, Steve held his lover against his chest. Bucky looked up at him with his soft, bedroom eyes. Steve smoothed a hand down the man's side where his touch settled against a bare hip. Contentment fought against the first stirrings of regret. Not that he regretted having sex with Bucky. Regret came from the inevitable crash when Bucky refused to get help, when he refused to acknowledge his issues, and they sank into the familiar patterns that had led to their divorce, and he did not want to go through that mess all over again. 

“God, what are we gonna do, Buck?”

Instead of answering the question, Bucky changed the subject altogether. “I'm in trouble, Steve.”

Steve sat up. This sounded like the kind of conversation one needed to have while sitting up. “What's wrong? What do you need?”

Bucky's Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. “There was-- I witnessed a murder. This woman walked into a baggage claim and murdered the attendant. There's pictures on a roll of film in my camera bag that contain evidence of the murder. I didn't know what to do. I panicked. After what happened to Luis when they put him in witness protection-- What do I do, Stevie?”

“Jesus Christ.” That was the absolute last thing Steve had expected to hear. “Jelly Belly, the cops need those photos. They might even need you to testify to put the murderer away. Buck, you gotta get in touch with the cops and tell them what you know.”

“Can't I just forget it happened? Live here on this tropical paradise with you?”

“No. Because we can't run from our responsibilities. We can't run from doing the right thing. Buck, you been running your whole life from what your parents forced on you. You can't run from this, but I'm gonna be here with you the whole way if that's what you want.”

Trepidation ate away at the resolve on his ex's face. Eventually, the man nodded and eased to sit against the headboard, the sheet pooling on his lap. He reached for his own cell phone to make the appropriate calls despite how reluctant he seemed.

XXXXX

He kinda wanted to turn and run the other way when Wanda appeared from a supply closet. If he hurried, he could backpedal and take a flying leap out a nearby window, so Clint clutched a tall lamp to keep himself immobile. Good, grief, she was beautiful. Every day made her more beautiful still.

Wanda stopped, a tablet poised in her hands, pack of toilet paper stuffed under one arm, a messenger bag hanging from her shoulder that overflowed with a various toiletries. “Brian. I wasn't expecting to-- Um. Hi. Hello.”

“Hi.” His inside voice screamed, 'say something, you dolt!' Sadly, his outside voice wasn't nearly as cooperative. Tongue-tied, he wound up saying nothing at all and looking like a dumb shit.

“Your-- The shirt. Your shirt. The one I found in Ms. Mockingbird's playroom. It's in the laundry. I'll have someone drop it by your place in the morning.”

Sirens squealed. His jaw worked back and forth, but being caught in limbo meant he didn't know how to respond and remained silent. Again. Because he was a wreck of a human being who couldn't get his shit together to save his damned life.

Wanda offered a strained smile. “Okay then. Bye, I guess.” She turned to leave.

A jolt of panic pierced his inactivity, and he surged forward, laying a hand on her arm to prevent her from walking away. “Wait. Wanda, I-- Ah fuck, Wanda, you shouldn't have ever kissed me 'cause I'm just a stupid guy who doesn't know his romantic bone from his funny bone.”

She didn't respond, just gazed at him with that deep look of hers that said she could read his soul.

It was at that point that Clint knew he had to make a decision, and fuck if it wasn't the hardest and easiest one he'd ever made. “I didn't have sex with Mockingbird.”

“I don't need to know this. We aren't promised to each other.”

“No, I need to say this. Mockingbird was helping me learn things that I desperately needed to learn because I haven't had sex with anyone since my phalloplasty.”

She didn't react outwardly but gave him time to continue at his own pace.

“See, I'm no good at this thing where I let myself get close to people. Trying to decide if I should tell them, and if so, when do I tell them? Will it matter to them if I do tell them? Are they going to leave me because I was born with a vagina and my penis is a miracle of surgical medicine? How do you look someone in the eyes and tell them that without looking like you want more than they're willing to give?

“I just haven't done this before. Spent so long treating my dysphoria and making my body reflect how I felt inside that I never stopped to learn the art of socially navigating this kind of conversation. So look, if this is more complicated than you considered, that's fine. If you were just having a stupid, impromptu kiss at the beach, then you gotta tell me now so I don't get any deeper into this.”

She was quiet for so long Clint was reconsidering throwing himself out the nearby window, but when she moved, it wasn't away from him. She stepped closer, cupped his elbow, and pressed their lips together. “You silly, silly goose. I am attracted to people, not their genitals. And you are one of the people I am attracted to. In more ways than one.”

“Wait.” He probably looked stupid standing there with pursed lips, eyes closed, and heart impersonating a hummingbird's wings. “What?”

Laughter bubbled from her lungs. She gently flicked his nose. “I don't care if you have a penis or a vagina or some combination of the two. I like you.”

“That is so not how I expected this conversation to go.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Disgust? Which I can see now is just me projecting past experiences on you, because you're sweet and perfect and everything lovely.”

“Clearly, you haven't seen me fighting over the last piece of pizza.”

It was his turn to laugh. “I don't know how far I'll be able to take this physically. Is that okay?”

“Anything you need, darling.” She tapped away on her tablet when it beeped an alarm. “I want to continue our conversation, but we have a prolapsed anus on the third floor, and housekeeping has been called in for a bio-hazard clean-up. Can we talk later?”

“Yeah, absolutely. I get off at eight.”

They made plans for Wanda to come over to his place later that night, and then, feeling like he was floating on a cloud, he went through the rest of his day. And if there were cartoon hearts twittering around his head, well Tim would just have to get over it rather than barking orders at him while he unloaded bags of fertilizer from a delivery truck.

Of course, his hearts-and-flowers mood took a hit when he went to get ready for his date with Wanda (it was totally a date) because what was he supposed to actually wear? He could remember the arduous task of getting ready for dates before genital surgery, and boy did he not want to take thirty steps back. So Natasha came over to Help™ for whatever version of help Nat wanted to provide that day.

Turned out that her Help™ came in the way of throwing handfuls of popcorn at him and suggesting that he was color blind when he couldn't choose between a saffron-colored shirt with a gray blazer or an amethyst button down. He finally got fed up with her antics and leaped on top of her to physically shove the popcorn she'd been chucking at him into her mouth.

They were in a compromising position, Nat with her hands around his neck and Clint in the process of punching her when Miss Potts waltzed through his front door, which he'd left open to allow the cool, evening air to drift inside. She gave them a disapproving glare.

“You have a conference call on our secure office line.”

Nat moved first, releasing his neck and peeling herself out from under him. The speed with which she could go from Naughty Nat™ to Professional Natasha™ left him feeling a little dizzy. Within three seconds flat, she smiled her warmest (it wasn't very warm) smile and escorted Pepper out of his home. She left “you go on that date, Clintonius Barximus, or I'll kill you with fire” in her wake.

Huffing a sigh, he eased back to his feet, giving his basketball shorts and the Under Armor Boxerjock he wore beneath a tug back into place. He adjusted himself inside his shorts, and on a whim, moved to stand before the mirror in his loft and pushed down his shorts and boxers to acknowledge his body. An average-sized cock rested in a nest of dark hair and was pillowed by his scrotum. A little smile cocked the corner of his mouth when the voices of shame, embarrassment, and otherness remained silent.

They remained silent because there was nothing else to critique which wasn't to say that he had stamped himself with a giant “cured” signed. It was likely body dysphoria would be a life-long companion, but it was a companion he had learned to manage and would continue managing with the help of his new body and an incredible therapist, who had been after him for the past several months to address the ongoing tension with Bernard.

Thoughts of his brother nearly brought him to a stand-still, so it was a conscious choice to step out of his garments and pull on the pair of dark-wash jeans he'd selected. Then he dragged on the saffron shirt and gray blazer and stuffed his feet into a pair of ankle boots. Once dressed, he turned this way and that to survey his handiwork. He gave himself a little smile and a thumbs up.

Choosing a date outfit didn't come with its previous unease. Now there was hard muscle instead of soft curves, a thick waist rather than curved hips, a contoured chest instead of breasts. Now, he understood what looked good on his body. Before, he had only been able to see all the wrong things, all the things he wanted to masculinize.

It struck him then that he was content for the first time in his life. He finally felt like all the puzzle pieces that made up Clint Barton had been snapped into place. He was complete, and it was time to give himself permission to start a new chapter of his life. It was time for him to stop being afraid of making connections with people. It was time for him to require more of Bernard and the people around him who might have something negative to say about the person who Clint Barton finally was.

He needed to love himself enough to require those he surrounded himself with to treat him with love and respect. What could be so wrong, so damaging to society about loving himself? Nothing.

A knock on his door finally pulled his attention away from the reflection in the mirror. Nat totally would have made fun of him for the goofy smile that lit up his face. He spritzed on a bit of cologne and hurried down the ladder. Seeing Wanda waiting outside wearing one of her radiant expressions made his heart do funny things.

The screen door squeaked when he opened it.

“Hi,” he greeted.

“Hi,” she returned.

Clint swallowed heavily and risked darting a glance down the length of her body. A little hiccup of breath filled his lungs. The woman standing before him was ethereal, an angel come down from Heaven. From the tips of her granny boots to the hem of her calf-length skirt to the wide, leather belt framing her trim waist to the tops of her shoulders framed in white lace. A cascade of ruffles spilled down her arms to a pair of cuff bracelets, the metal beaten to a matte finish. Her fiery hair was piled on her head in a messy up-do with curls having escaped to frame her lovely face.

He picked up one of her curls and arranged it farther away from her eyes. He tripped over words a time or two before finally saying, “Be still my heart. Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?”

She giggled, her nose scrunching and a big, toothy smile blossoming. She had the most adorable giggle. “Why no, good sir. No, it didn't. Do you know why?”

“I can't say that I do.”

“Because I fell for you.”

This woman was going to be the death of him. He didn't bother hiding a dopy smile, just offered her his arm. “Our chariot awaits, mademoiselle.”

He handed her into an NEV before scurrying around to clamber behind the wheel, and they were soon pulling out of his driveway. The island had a small entertainment district open for staff and guests alike. It contained a cinema, some restaurants, a couple of dance clubs, some shopping areas. There was even a bowling alley for cripes sake.

But their destination was the botanical garden located inside a giant dome of glass supported by a spiderweb of steel frames. He paid for their tickets and inhaled deeply of the dense humidity in which tropical plants and flowers thrived. Around them was an explosion of color. Bird of Paradise, Hibiscus, Musas, Blood Lilies, and African Tulips. Alpina, Amazon Lilies, Blanket Flowers, and Jacaranda. Color splashed through the meandering pathways, and he felt like Dorothy emerging into Oz for the first time and taking in the vibrant yellow of the brick road and the ruby of the slippers and the green patina of the capital of Oz.

They walked, hand in hand, down a cobbled lane, and he pointed out a few of the bird species flying amidst the trees. A pair of Rainbow Lorikeets were causing a ruckus over their female counterpart, who was having none of the display of machismo. The distant sound of a car alarm threatened the natural wonder of their environment until they rounded a corner. A lyrebird shook its impressive tail feathers and switched from a car alarm to the grinding noise of a chainsaw.

Wanda laughed. “Is that bird...”

“Yep. Lyrebirds can mimic pretty much every noise they hear. It's all part of their mating ritual. See his big tail feathers? He lures females with his singing, but his tail feathers are the real showstopper.”

“What would your mating song be like?”

Clint responded without really thinking and warbled, “I come home late one night drunk as I could be. I saw a thing in your thing where my thing oughta be.”

She cracked up laughing and leaned her slender shoulder against his. “Darling. Darling, I am wooed. Please, show me your tail feathers.”

So he turned and shook his backside at her which caused more of her lovely laughter. Once their guffaws waned, he caught a tendril of her silken hair between his fingers and allowed it to slide across his callouses. “I'm afraid you didn't sign up for James Bond level wooing. My style's more like Crusty the Clown. It's not too late to back out.”

She caught his hand, pulling his palm to her cheek where she turned her face to press a kiss against the mound at the heel of his palm. “I don't want to back out, darling.”

Reassured that he wasn't totally bungling their date, he slipped an arm around her shoulders to guide her down a different path. This one deposited them near a large bud, its tight spathes curled lovingly around the central spadex as it awaited the moment of blooming. A Titan Arum. The Corpse Flower. Nearby, the malodorous reek of a Stinking Corpse Lily, Tropical Pitcher Plants, and Elephant Foot Yams. To say that the atmosphere reeked with the stinking stench of rot would have been accurate.

Wanda laughed. Instead of running, she unwound the scarf from around her neck and pressed it to her nose. “Brian, did you bring me to Zombieland?”

“I'll protect you.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

They abandoned that area in favor of racing down another branch of the main pathway that deposited them near a waterfall and an abundance of lush ferns. He left her there to arrange for the next part of their date—he paid for them to plant their own flowers in a garden area set aside for that purpose—and came back with a freshly cut lily to find Wanda standing in amidst a cloud of butterflies.

They swarmed her on all sides, delicate feet catching in the spiderweb of her hair. One landed on her upturned nose, another on her cheekbone. A vortex of color swirled around her, and Clint had enough sense in his head to slip his phone from his pocket and turn on the video function. It took his breath away watching a delicate flower amidst the lacy fluttering of the butterflies. That was the moment.

Fifty years from now when they were both old and gray, worn from a life filled with adventure and cheer, that he could look back and point to. That was the moment he lost his heart to Wanda Maximoff. Which of course was silly and fanciful. They'd known each other for barely three weeks. That surely wasn't enough time to fall in love with someone, but boy did it feel like love.

They planted a Hibiscus together and then went home where Clint made them a fajita chicken salad. Wanda was suitably impressed and complimented his cooking skills, and if they wound up kissing on the sofa after dinner, well, who the Hell could blame him for making out with Wanda Maximoff?


	10. She Tells Me "Worship in the Bedroom"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda and Clint take their relationship to the next level. Bucky is Brock's knight in shining armor. Steve has another session with Alexander Pierce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is a really intense BDSM scene in this chapter between Steve and Alexander Pierce that includes consensual waterboarding. I totally understand if any of you are uncomfortable reading heavy kink, so if you want to skip it, it's the last scene break of the chapter. I will include a summary in the end notes to let you know what character points the scene conveys.

“Wanda. Wanda, slow down for a second.”

She eased her hand away from the buttons of his jeans and removed herself from his personal space. There was something special about her smile, the way it softened her features.

“Don't go that far. Just need to get my...” He rooted around in his back pocket for the phone digging into his ass and distracting him from the moment. Once it was dealt with, he reached for her again. She came willingly. Not just willingly. Enthusiastically.

They were so doing this, and his heart was gonna burst out his chest wall to dance the Michigan Frog. He couldn't remember the last time he made out like a horny teenager. Probably during the brief period when he'd been a horny teenager and looking at linoleum could turn him on.

Her mouth was an aphrodisiac. He couldn't seem to keep his lips away from hers, as he'd forgotten just how amazing kissing could be. Needed to remind himself to leave a note for Future Clint Barton. It was only gonna say one thing: Kissing was fucking amazing.

His tongue darted between her lips to skim alongside hers, to feel the velvet and settle into the realization that part of his body was inside her body. And if he whimpered? Tough shit. Kissing Wanda was one of those whimpering sorts of experiences.

The woman's hips filled his palms when he clasped them, and he couldn't swallow the mewl of pleasure as her thighs bracketed him. She rubbed the hot center of our loins against him. Because that just happened. For as sweet and affectionate as she was outside the bedroom, she was as much confident about what she wanted inside it and having her stunning curves settle atop him was like nothing he'd ever experienced. Stick a fork in him because he was done.

“I've never... With a girl,” he tried to say. “Always with guys. I don't know how...”

Wanda eased back to look at him with her soulful hazel eyes. She traced the pads of her fingers down the contours of his cheekbone and jaw. “Did you ever touch yourself before you transitioned?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, but that's different. I wasn't really pleasuring a girl. I was pleasuring a guy who happened to have a vagina. 'S different. You're gonna want different things.”

Rising, she found the catch in her skirt, unzipping it to allow the fabric to slither down her hips and pool around her feet. She stepped out of her panties and unfastened her blouse and bra. Within moments, she was naked, miles and miles of creamy skin and plush curves. Then, she dropped back to the bed and held her hand out in clear invitation.

“Will you be with me?”

He hesitated.

She was patient.

In the end, he accepted her palm and shifted to make more room for her to stretch out on her back, content to let him look, to allow him the honor of gazing at the spread of her hips, the narrowness of her waist, the gentle curve of her stomach, the heavy swell of her breasts. Her body was a work of art, one he could lose himself in for eternity. 

Gathering his courage, he stood up to shuck out of his clothes. It was one of those things where he would never be comfortable getting naked in front of someone, especially not the first time, so he rushed through the job and dove back into bed. Again, she didn't pressure him to relax his posture.

When he finally did, allowing his arms to slide down to rest at his sides, she didn't gush praises over his physique. It was like she knew he didn't want any one part of him singled out. Instead, she opened her arms. He moved into them to press the naked lengths of their bodies together. Feeling her skin against his bare chest was a wonder and prompted him to gasp.

She greeted him with a smile once he relaxed into the moment. Then, her fingertips grazed down his arm, laced their fingers together, and pulled his hand closer. She helped him flatten it over the fullness of her breast to show him where she wanted to be touched. The soft look in her eye held no judgment, no experience, just acceptance and welcome.

And that, ultimately, gave him enough courage to smooth his thumb around a dusky nipple. There was something fascinating about watching it pearl beneath his touch, watching it pull into a hard kernel begging for the attention of his mouth. He didn't deny that desire and leaned close to suckle it between his lips. The noises she made let him know he was on the right track.

Gently, he closed his teeth around the other nipple to give it a little tug while she guided his other hand down the plane of her belly, and boy was that an interesting experience. No hard muscle. No happy trail. No light furring of body hair, just flesh and curves and the kiss of feminine fat around her midsection. It sparked something inside him, something that felt right.

She helped him to press his middle finger between the folds of her vagina into the damp heat awaiting him, and fuck, he'd never experienced that before. Not even with his own body. He'd never gotten very wet when he was aroused, but Wanda's body was slippery with her pleasure and eagerly melted around the press of his fingers into her opening.

Clint moaned. He found her clit and stroked the pearl in quick circles.

“Slow down,” she murmured.

He complied.

“Yes. Just like that. Oh, darling.”

And how erotic was that? He dipped to pull her into a kiss and tried to memorize the way her body trembled beneath him, the way she closed her legs around his hand now and then and arched against his touch. He pressed his fingers deeper and curled them toward her pelvis trying to find her G-spot.

“Don't push so hard. Be delicate.”

So he gentled his approach, and it wasn't long before she cried out and lifted her hips to press herself more strongly against his thumb and the heel of his palm. Watching her come undone was awe-inspiring. Her expression opened as the pleasure blossomed through her body like a flower. Her petals opened, fresh slick pooled around his hand, and her thighs trembled where they clenched around his hand hard enough he couldn't have pulled away if he'd wanted to.

She breathed through her orgasm before relaxing into the pillows, a little smile playing around the corners of her mouth. She reached to touch him, to cup his cheek with a palm and urge him down for a few sloppy kisses. Neither of them seemed very coordinated at the moment.

After a few moments, she rolled against his side, her lips ghosting along his collarbone and the sensitive skin beneath his chin before working up over his jaw and to his lips. They kissed lazily for a few minutes while enjoying the afterglow without rushing the moment to its next peak. When her hand did eventually flare across his chest and move down, he settled his hand over hers.

“I should tell you first that I didn't get the pump implanted that would allow me to simulate an erection, but I have an erectile sleeve. It's in the nightstand along with a bottle of lube. That's what I was talking to Miss Mockingbird about.”

“Then I suppose we shouldn't let her advice go to waist.” That said, she rooted through the nightstand and produced the items.

After drizzling lube inside, she settled it over the glans of his penis and slowly worked it down. It was clear, allowing them both to see his own flesh filling it, and he breathed through the stimulation of having it drag over his cock. Tightness clutched him and sent shock waves of pleasure throughout his loins. A loop at the base wound around his scrotum to anchor the sleeve in place. Over top the sleeve, she rolled a condom.

“Wait,” he said. “Wait for just a second. Don't you need... You just came. Don't you need a break?”

His exclamation wasn't met with laughter. Instead, she brushed his bangs away from his face. “A lot of girls can have multiple orgasms and don't have the refractory period a guy does. We can become oversensitive post-orgasm, but it's been long enough since my orgasm to be fine.”

A soft yelp escaped when she squeezed her palm around his girth, but that was nothing compared to her swinging her leg over his hips and guiding him to her vagina. He pushed between her labia, unable to look away from the place where their bodies were joining, and slowly, he pushed up into her. Nothing could compare to the sensation of being gripped inside her heat.

He whimpered her name and clutched her hips, fought to bring himself under better control and struggled to let go. So many diametrically opposed feelings ricocheted around inside his brain that he just needed a minute to allow himself to sink into the feelings because it was nothing like taking a penis inside his body. It was nothing like he'd ever experienced before.

Eons could have passed in the space of a heartbeat for all he knew. Worlds could have collided. He wouldn't have noticed. Every molecule of his being fixated upon Wanda, his lover, cradling him inside her body. It was single-handedly the most vulnerable moment he'd ever experienced.

Then she moved. She lifted off him until all she held was the aching tip only to rock back onto him. He was helpless to do anything but hold onto her hips and gaze into the depths of her hazel eyes because she wouldn't let him look away. She wouldn't let him retreat from this moment, so all he could do was live inside the vortex of their coupling.

“Wanda,” he rasped with no intention of actually saying anything.

Having her surrounding him, bouncing on him, watching the jiggle of her breasts, the way she threw back her head and allowed a river of red hair to spill down her back left him paralyzed with want. He wanted. He needed, and she gave to him so, so selflessly.

“Darling, you feel amazing,” she mewled.

“Holy cripes, you have no idea,” he returned.

Of course, then she squeezed around him, and it was all over for him. The orgasm was sharp and intense, so much more intense than his orgasms had ever been before. He could only grit his teeth and whimper his way through it, his whole body quaking with sensation.

Moments later, she spilled over the edge herself, and he could actually feel the contractions of her vaginal muscles quivering around him. It was incredible, and he surged into a seated position to wrap his arms around her and clutch her body against his, reveling in the pillowing of her breasts against his naked chest. He rested his head on her shoulder and stroked her back.

After a while, as they both lounged in his bed with a sheet draped over their waists, she traced the scarring that remained from his mastectomy and chest contouring. The touch caused him to shiver.

“Does it bother you?” he asked.

“No. They are battle scars, earned while you fought to become the happiest version of yourself.”

Her fingers dipped down and smoothed over the scarring from his donor sites. He'd chosen to have an ALT flap for the express purpose of not having scars on his arms, which would be readily visible unless he wanted to walk around in long sleeves constantly. The first brush of her fingers caused him to flinch. She started to pull her hand away, but he caught her fingers.

“'S'okay. Just not used to anyone touching them.”

She went back to stroking the thickened skin and nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder.

“This is my first time since the surgery. I guess I just wasn't comfortable with the idea of being so vulnerable with another person until now. Part of me expected bottom surgery to be like flicking a switch, and in ways, it was. I've never been happier.”

Her glance lifted to his but she didn't interrupt.

“'Then figuring out I'm not actually a gay man threw me for a loop. Funny how the brain does weird things when you're constantly reinventing yourself. Part of the reason it took me so long to acknowledge my attraction for you was self-doubt. If I could suddenly doubt something so integral as my sexuality, then maybe I wasn't really trans.”

He allowed a moment of silence to fill the loft before continuing, “But I think that's just my brother talking. He's never been supportive, always thought my problem was mental illness instead of actually being trans. So many people don't understand the complex chemistry involved.”

Another kiss grazed his shoulder, her silent way of encouraging him to talk.

“I've gotta accept that Barney's probably never gonna see me. He's gonna spend the rest of his life seeing Chleo, and that sucks. 'Cause it means I might not have a place for him in my life. Can't keep letting him run me down, you know. At some point I gotta stop letting him hurt me. But he's my only blood family. Breaking that connection isn't gonna be easy.”

It was then she finally spoke. “I understand something of what that's like. Our father, Pietro and me, he wanted us to follow in his footsteps. He wanted us to become Bratva. Um. Say me how--” She stopped and reordered her thoughts. “He is a leader in a branch of the Russian mafia called 'The Brotherhood.' He wanted Pietro and I to become initiates so he could pass leadership to Pietro if something were to happen to him.

“We refused,” she continued. “Our mother found out and smuggled away to Sokovia where she raised us on her own. I don't think we'll ever speak to him again. He won't change, and we want nothing to do with the violence of his world. I am afraid if Pietro ever-- If Papa found us that Pietro would give himself to the life to spare me.”

Clint grazed his hand up and down her arm. “We'll make certain that doesn't happen, okay? Whatever it takes, we won't allow your twin to sacrifice himself because he thinks there's no other way.”

She leaned up to kiss him, and they settled into each other's arms. The house became quiet as they slipped into the silence.

XXXXX

The soft snikt and thump of a bag hitting a wooden board preceded Bucky whooping in delight. His lurch nearly sent beer spilling over the rim of his glass but that mattered much less than Warren groaning. His friend tilted his head back and looked utterly defeated.

“What the Hell, Barnes?”

“Don't mess with me, California, I come from corn hole country.” Pleased with himself, he smiled around the rim of his glass and took another swallow of hops.

“You owe me a day at the beach. Just wait until I get you on a surfboard and then look so goddamn smug. You--” Warren emphasized the pronoun with a jab of his finger. “--have been challenged.”

Bucky surrendered with grace, not bothering to tell his friend that he'd loved surfing when he'd been stationed in Texas for part of his military career. Maybe they could lay wagers over whether or not he wiped out. Win himself some of that sweet Mary Jane Warren was always going on about. 

The other man's cell went off, taking Warren's attention away from the game, so Bucky flopped into a lounge chair to wait. A bunch of guests and their sex kittens were presently engaged in a game of volleyball. It didn't take him long to pick out Brock's lean physique as he leaped to drive one across the net. Beside him, a bubbly redhead with way too much aggressiveness slapped Brock's ass.

Bucky didn't know what to make of the feelings churning in his cauldron. He wasn't jealous; Brock and him weren't like that, but something about the way she treated him made his hackles stand on end. When she wanted him to do something, she pushed him around, arranged his body how she liked it, and peppered her commands with calling him a dog or insinuating he didn't have free will.

Watching their dynamic made him a little sick to the stomach. He promised himself he would bring up the behavior to Steve later. If they were still talking. They'd had another fight that morning. Since when could they actually communicate without having fights?

His ex-husband had brought up therapy again, thinking Bucky might be more inclined toward seeing someone after they'd physically reconnected. Why he couldn't get it through Steve's thick skull that therapy was not happening was a mystery. So they'd driven each other up a wall before Steve had left for his first session of the day. And my, how thinking about Steve fucking someone else made him feel monstrous inside. Like he was one second away from becoming Leatherhead and chasing down Steve's clients with a chainsaw.

“Earth to Barnes. Come in, Barnes.”

Bucky jumped out of his thoughts to find that Warren had finished his call. “Anything important?”

“Just business.”

“What in the fuck do you do for work? Shit, I don't even know.”

“I work in aviation and alternative fuels.”

“That sounds--” He came up empty. “Sounds a whole Hell of a lot more complicated than freelance photography and bowling alley maintenance.”

“I don't know, man. We need bowling alleys.”

The two fell out laughing together.

“So. Heard you got into some trouble with Captain yesterday.”

Shame tucked Bucky's chin close to his chest. “I said some things I shouldn't have in a location that was completely off-limits for the saying of those things.”

“Feel better after you got it off your chest?”

“Well, I would have if I hadn't stuck my foot in my mouth. What the fuck is wrong with me? I knew better than to say Steve's ma would be disappointed in him. Sarah Rogers is a tough subject with Steve. That man idolized his mother. She died young.”

“Tough break.”

“We fucked last night.”

“Hold up!” Warren grabbed his lawn chair and dragged it close. “Let me assume the position.” He flopped down, rested elbows on knees, and dangled his bottle between his fingers. “Details. Go.”

The intense focus on his love life made Bucky chortle. “Man, I do not kiss and tell.” He flattened his hand over Warren's face and shoved his head to the side.

“You do now.”

So Bucky told him, leaving out any of the lurid details. The best part had been afterward, in the soft silence that blanketed them. The monster tried to come. It tried to derail him with thoughts of shame and filth, but he'd somehow managed to snuggle closer to Steve and drive the doubts away. He'd remembered the good feelings left in the wake of orgasming in front of Scott and had managed to cling to those as a positive experience.

“You two love birds getting back together?”

“God no. Steve and I-- Let's just say he's riding my ass again on an issue that is non-negotiable. As long as we have that wedge driven between us, there is no getting back together. Guess I just need to find a way to be okay with that.”

Their conversation was interrupted again by the cutting shrillness of Synthia Schmidt's voice as she forced Brock onto the ground. She placed her sandal-clad foot atop his neck and pressed down to rub his nose into the dirt. Told him she was going to rub his nose in shit like the dog he was.

Bucky was on his feet before Warren could warn him not to start anything. He hurried to the volleyball sand, seized her arm, and pulled her away from Brock, at which point, he snarled, “Stop calling him that. He's not a fucking dog. He's a man.”

Brock, apparently stupefied, gazed up at Bucky from the ground. The man shot to his feet. “Red.” The color was addressed to Synthia. Then, he turned his attention back on Bucky. “Buck, it's okay. She's not doing anything I didn't ask her to do.”

“Why would you--?” He wasn't sure how to ask that question. The idea of wanting to be humiliated was so far removed from anything he could imagine finding desirable.

Brock looked around at the crowd, excused himself from Synthia, and cupped Bucky's elbow. “Let's go somewhere more private, yeah?”

And he was confused enough that he went along with being directed toward a patio some distance away. The very idea of someone as strong and centered as Brock getting off on being called nasty things rocked his beliefs about sexuality and kink. Which wasn't to say he had a huge repertoire to base his beliefs on. It just didn't fit with the idea of someone who'd been hurt the way they had been hurt.

“First, I gotta say, last thing I expected was my hero rocketing across the green coming to my rescue.” He chucked Bucky under the chin. “That was something special, Kiddo. Make a guy feel wanted. Second, Sin and me negotiated for humiliation. It's all part of our contract.”

“But why? After what you've been through? How could you want that?”

“S'all about ego, Kid. Break me down to build me up. Puts the real nasty shit into perspective. But there's limits, you know. I like when she calls me a dog and makes me grovel, but you bet your britches if she called me a fag or brought up my past, I'd put a stop to that shit slicker than snot.”

“But your dad hurt you.” He couldn't get past that sticking point. “You said he called you nasty names, made you feel less than him because you were beneath him. Doesn't it remind you of him when she does that kind of shit?”

“Not in the controlled environment of kink. Kinda helps me process, actually, takes the mystique outta my dad using shit names like that. Means it's not some dirty secret I gotta be scared of.”

“Am I supposed to--?”

“Fuck no, Kid.” And Brock reached up then to grasp Bucky's shoulder. “What works for me ain't gonna work for you. Don't you dare let nobody call you names that don't make you feel good, that don't help you strip away the nastiness to build yourself up again.”

His gaze trained on a point past the other man's shoulder while he tried to work it out in his head. Eventually, he had to take Brock's word for it and admit it wasn't something he could ever understand. He guessed he didn't have to, though, as long Brock was being safe and not being taken advantage of, and if anyone ever did take advantage of him, there would be Hell to pay.

“Sorry for interrupting, then?”

“Don't be sorry. You made my decade barreling in like a knight in shining armor. We still okay?”

“Of course. What you do in kink is your business long as you're doing it safely.”

“You're a good egg, Buck.” Grinning, Brock ruffled his hair.

Bucky stood on tip-toe and gave the man a quick kiss before watching Rumlow retreat back toward the volleyball sands where Sin went immediately to him to check in. That brought some relief, knowing his dominant would check to make sure things were fine before restarting the scene.

Warren eventually came to stand beside him. “Well, that was exciting.”

Laughing, Bucky elbowed him in the ribs.

XXXXX

Because of course they'd had a fight the morning after the most mind-blowing sex Steve'd had in years. Of-fucking-course they had, and it all stemmed from Bucky's adamant refusal to see a professional to get the help he needed. Maybe Steve didn't have the right to pressure him about it. Maybe he should let sleeping dogs lie, but that idea was about as warm and cuddly as a porcupine.

Steve Rogers had never butted heads with a problem he didn't want to fix.

Irritation over his ex's dismissive attitude followed him from his office at the resort hotel and made him slam the door behind him. As if the door had ever done anything wrong to him. He carried the emotions to the water garden, which was just a fancy name for the dungeon designed for water play. 

Scott met him outside with a tablet. The other man's welcoming smile dimmed upon noticing Steve's tension. Because Scott was incredibly observant like that.

“Everything okay, Sir?”

“My ex-husband is driving me up a wall.”

“So it's Tuesday.”

Steve shot him an unappreciative look.

“Sorry, Sir. Jean said I woke on the sarcastic side of the bed this morning. Want me to invent something to get him out of your hair for a while?”

He considered the offer for a moment before saying, “Yeah, actually. Could you arrange for Jericho and Bucky to bump into each other? Mind you, Bucky won't want to talk to Jericho, especially once he finds out the guy's a psychologist. He's got a thing against therapists. Not my story to tell. Anyhow, I figure maybe if they meet outside a clinical setting, Bucky might warm up to him.”

Scott's expression flattened into one that clearly said 'you've got to be joking.' His outside voice, meanwhile, said, “Jericho isn't going to like that.”

“I know. 'M just hoping that if they meet person to person instead of person to therapist they might hit it off. Make Bucky more comfortable with him. Hell, I'm willing to try anything.”

“I'll see what I can do, Sir.” Then, Scott tapped his watch to bring Steve's focus back to the session.

After his assistant disappeared down he hallway, Steve turned his attention back to the tablet to reread his scene negotiations with Alexander Pierce. Negotiations by proxy weren't his favorite by any stretch. Hearing what the sub wanted, clocking body language and inflection, went a long way in understanding the purpose of a scene.

He felt more connected with his partner when they negotiated face to face, but Mr. Pierce had specifically requested a negotiation by proxy to lay the groundwork for a kidnapping scene. It was harder to believe you were being kidnapped when the person doing the abducting asked for your hard limits and assured that you could trust them to take care of you.

Hence the proxy negotiation to build the fantasy illusion.

Centering himself allowed him to find the skin he needed to slither into. Once he found the mindset, he donned a plain, black mask. It covered his entire face. Even the eye holes were obscured by a dark film that allowed him to see out without the observer seeing in. Then, after settling his racing endorphins, he stepped into the dungeon.

He was no longer Steve Rogers, divorcee, but Captain.

Mr. Pierce was suspended between two posts, arms stretched overhead and restrained with leather cuffs. A spreader bar braced his feet apart. He was naked. Middle-age spread hadn't quite caught up with him yet, leaving him strong and fit with only the a thin layer of fat padding out his flesh. It was a good body, a body waiting to be broken, and Steve intended to break it.

Pierce's eyes immediately flew toward him. The man already looked tense.

“Tell me your safe word.”

“Red.”

“What do you do when you want to stop but are too overcome to speak?”

He shook his head back and forth a dozen times.

“What is your last resort?”

The submissive rattled a bell clutched in a curled fist.

With that, Steve moved seamlessly into the roll of tormentor. All traces of the understanding dominant, the man who soothed his submissives into letting go of their inhibitions, disappeared. Something harder and less expressive remained in its wake.

He watched Alexander's glance following him as he caressed the instruments spread across a table. He hovered over a zapper for a few heartbeats and watched a shiver race across the other man's skin. Ultimately, he moved past to a water hose where he bent to open the pressure valve.

Apprehension tightened Mr. Pierce's muscles.

Steve sprayed a line of water across the concrete floor, allowing droplets to scatter across the other man's bare feet so he could feel and comprehend what was coming. Fear flashed across the man's visage but was quickly swallowed by a mask of indifference. Interesting. Pierce clearly fought against the desire to break down but ultimately stood firm.

Water arched across the floor again, but this time, he gave no warning before the frigid stream blasted Alex right in his face. The other man gasped, coughed, and immediately struggled against his restraints. He whipped his head this way and that in an effort to pull himself out of the direct stream.

Just as quickly as the water came, it shut off.

“Word has it that you Americans are stronger than that, but I shouldn't have expected better. You're all weak. You and your brothers-in-arms. You're weak.”

Alex tested his restraints again and managed to firm up his stance. “Fuck off.”

“What did you say to me?”

“You heard me, cocksucker.”

He turned full water pressure back into the man's face. Alex was a little more prepared the second time and managed to endure the torment without sagging. That lasted only so long as his breath of oxygen lasted. Once the water had shocked it out of him, he writhed, looking for any give in his restraints that might allow him to escape the water-boarding.

Just as soon as Alex looked on the verge of breaking, Steve shut off the hose again and listened to the patter of droplets dripping onto the floor and the harsh wheeze of his submissive struggling to catch his breath. Cutting off the stream did two things: kept the man from becoming desensitized to any one stimulus and allowed Alex to catch his breath. Contrary to how things looked, Steve didn't actually want to drown him.

Finding his focus took the other man a little longer the second time, but eventually, he snapped, “That all you got? Giving up already?”

Steve laughed, a sound turned sinister by the grimace of his mask. An instant later, he returned the full force of the blast into Alex's face, filling his nose and mouth, making a full breath impossible. Between the pressure and the frigid temperature, his sub sagged and finally released a broken sound, a shocked cry, but Steve could tell the man still clung to a shred of dignity. It was that dignity that stood in the way of Alex pushing through the emotions he desperately needed to process.

So Steve grabbed a black hood resting on a table full of supplies.

Alex shrank away the moment it dawned on him what was about to happen. “No,” he breathed. “Don't. Please.”

Steve paused to allow the man a moment to figure out what he was feeling and murmured, “Breathe through it. Use your tools. Do you need to safe word?”

To his credit, Alex seemed to process his needs but eventually accepted the hood over his head. 

Steve didn't give him any time to adjust to being blinded, just turned on the hose and soaked the hood in a matter of seconds, soaked it until his sub writhed out of some desperate need to escape the suffocating shroud. But not even that was enough to pry open the vice of Alex's emotional repression, so Steve pulled the hood tight across the man's face. It filled the other man's mouth, clung to his nostrils, clogged his breathing, brought panic blooming in its wake.

He backed the stream of water away a moment later, allowed Alex a second to breathe, and returned. It became a repeating pattern. Just enough oxygen got through to prevent his submissive from passing out while still keeping him firmly under the gauntlet, and finally, finally, the man's vault opened.

“Pierce, Alexander, First Lieutenant: twelve-dash-three four five-dash-six seven eight.”

It struck Steve like a bolt of lightning. He set aside the hose and hurried forward to remove the hood. Tears tracked down the man's cheeks. Name and service number.

“Check in with me. What's your color?”

“Green. Don't stop.”

There were two ways things could play out as far as Steve was concerned. First, he kept Alex riding the edge and feeling whatever emotions he needed to feel. Second, he ended the scene until the man was in a firmer frame of mind; then they would need to start all over again to break more walls down. He had clear directive, and Alex seemed to be processing emotions adequately.

Enough cold, though. It was time to warm him back up. Setting aside the hose, Steve selected a flogger. It was nice and thick. He allowed Alex to see the instrument before covering the man's face again, and that was the only warning he got before the strips of leather snapped against his skin.

He warmed the man with several gentle licks before really going at him. This was his favorite part, painting colors across his submissive's skin. Pink as blood rushed to the surface. Red bloomed whenever he passed a second time over pink skin. Then came the purples as Steve moved around him like a whirlwind. His chest. His thighs. His back. His stomach. His buttocks. Licking heat into flesh that had been chilled, and he never allowed the man more than a moment to catch his breath.

Then came the clothespins. Steve lined a horizontal row of clothespins over each pectoral muscle, clamping them down directly on his nipples and then dotting the rest of his body with them. It took a few moments for blood to rush to each clamped area and render the skin delicate and painful. Then, he selected a riding crop to rain targeted blows across his thighs, occasionally offering a gentle smack against the engorged cock hanging heavily between Alex's legs.

Steve didn't realize how good it felt at first. He was in the zone. Top space wasn't something he encouraged in most dominants. As a dominant, it was their job to remain in charge of the situation. Letting go into an altered state of mind could be incredibly dangerous when people who practiced kink rode the knife edge between pleasure and pain. He'd allowed himself to experience it a handful of times and was surprised to find himself slipping into that state of complete confidence in his abilities and in the safety of his submissive. 

Smiling, he used the crop to snap off one of the clothespins. Alex screamed. Another blow. A second clothespin slipped off the man's flesh. His sub yelled again, snot mingling with the tears dripping down his face. Just as soon as the clothespins were off the man's nipples, Steve hurried forward and rubbed the abused flesh, stimulating blood flow and making Alex scream with the intensity of nerve endings crackling with sensation.

The man writhed and couldn't seem to control the flood of tears. Wanting to keep him in that state, Steve finally pulled on a nitrile glove, lubed up his hand, and started skimming up and down the man's shaft from the crisp, springy hair at the base of his cock to his leaking tip.

“Please,” Alex sobbed. “Please, don't stop, Sir.”

Steve jacked him hard, brought him right to the edge of release, and let go of his cock, causing his submissive to scream in frustration. A second time, he built him up to the edge only to back him off. Then a third time. Until Alex was shaking and writhing against his restraints.

“Please, may I come, Sir?”

“Yes, you may.”

He jacked him hard again right up to the edge and then over it, semen dripping from the man's slit and splattering across the wet floor. Steve immediately capped the man's glans with his palm and rubbed in rapid strokes, rubbed until his sub was screaming again and actively fighting to get away from him.

Then came the quiet.

Steve removed the mask.

After releasing the restraints and helping Alex across the room and into a bed, he bundled the man into blankets and held him close, allowing him to remain in the silence so he could experience and process the emotions released by their play. Alex shivered. He snuggled closer.

Eventually, he murmured, “I worked with a flight crew on a light aircraft carrier. We were charged with a humanitarian mission to Somalia delivering supplies when the pirates attacked. They held us for forty-two days. Since I was in charge of overseeing the flight crew, they thought they could get information from me.”

Steve listened quietly.

“They didn't. I don't know how I held out, but I didn't give them anything.”

Another beat of silence passed.

“Thank you,” Alex said. “I've never lived in that moment before.”

Steve kissed the man's temple.

Much later, Steve asked Scott to come by his suite. Thankfully, Bucky wasn't around, so he had the place alone when his assistant arrived. They went to bed together, Scott tangled around him and holding him safe, Steve finding comfort in the other man's warmth to allow himself to come down from the high of responsibility. It had been one of the most intense scenes he'd ever done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: At the start of the scene, Steve asks Scott to arrange for Bucky to meet Jericho Drumm, a psychologist, outside of a clinical setting. Steve then engages in a kidnapping role play scene with Alex during which he helps Alex break down the walls preventing him from emotionally processing a bad time during Alex's life. We learn that Alex was head of a flight crew on an American aircraft carrier that was attacked and taken over by Somali pirates where he was held captive and tortured for over forty days. A US spec ops team liberated the carrier.


	11. Let's Get Naked and Explore Our Inner Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky does something incredibly brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Bucky performs in this chapter is a cover of James Arthur's "Say You Won't Let Go." I thought it was appropriate for Steve and Bucky.

A couple of siblings, Elsa and Cullen, were in the midst of some Vaudeville-inspired comedic act on the tiny stage inside Pietro's bar. A small crowd had gathered for Open Mic night and rewarded the performers with copious applause, applause that increased in volume when Elsa kicked her brother in the seat of his pants and sent him toppling ass over elbows across the stage.

Bucky swirled the dredges of a virgin daiquiri in a glass, pausing long enough to drain the contents before signaling Pietro for another. Brock peeled away from the audience, his arm falling from where it had been resting around Sin's shoulders, to get them a couple of more drinks. He pressed his lips against Bucky's temple and murmured against his hair.

“Why you sitting over here by yourself, Kiddo.”

“Guess I'm just no feeling very social right now.”

Brock bumped his broad shoulder against Bucky's. “You should play something after they're done.” He moved his head to indicate Elsa and Cullen.

“On stage? God, I haven't played for an audience in, fuck, forever. Wouldn't know where to start.”

“You start by putting your fingers on the frets and getting a pick...” interrupted Sin. The cruel sharpness to her eyes dimmed under the influence of Long Island Iced Tea, it seemed.

“What are we talking about?” asked Warren. Candy was practically plastered to his side.

Bucky required a conscious effort to ignore the hot sting of jealousy over watching Brock and Warren buddy up with their dominants after hours. He wouldn't have been terribly surprised if a curl of smoke slipped from between his lips. Which was stupid, because they were friends. They owed him nothing.

“Mr. Buchanan has decided to play something,” responded Sin while jerking her head toward the stage.

“Yes!” Warren disentangled his arms from Candy's shoulders to wrap them around Bucky's. “That's a brilliant flipping idea. Wait here. I'll run back and get your guitar for you.”

“I'm really not--”

Too late. Warren rabbited from the bar before he could get the words past his lips. The razor-edged glare he leveled on Sin did nothing to upset the natural curl of her mouth or the aloof tilt of her chin.

“You can't make me do this,” he griped to Brock.

“No one's gonna make you do anything, Kid, but you got talent, and you was just complaining about wishing you had more opportunity to play. Here's your opportunity. Fucking do something about it 'stead of letting your nerves get the best of you.”

“But Brock...” Even to his own ears he sounded like a whiny five year old, not a decorated war veteran used to staring down the barrel of a scope at enemy hostiles.

“Grab hold of your balls, Buchanan, and be a man,” said Sin.

“Gendered-fucking-language, babe,” Brock said.

Warren's return didn't save him. In fact, it hastened his doom, but his nerves didn't really set in until Brock and Warren practically deposited him and his guitar on stage after the previous act cleared out. And when the time came to pop open the case and remove the instrument, his hands started shaking.

They trembled as he adjusted the mic stand. They quivered as he strummed a few notes to check the instrument's tuning. They were as the last dried leaves of fall still clinging to barren branches.

He clenched said hands into fists and attempted to shake the nerves, to slough them off the tips of his fingers. Nothing really helped, and the first few notes he strummed came out warbled. He fisted his hands again, stuttered an apology into the mic, and finally settled himself on the stool.

Brock nodded his head. Warren gave him two thumb's up. Over at the bar, Pietro fist-pumped the air.

Bucky closed his eyes and started to play. Even to his own ears, it sounded shaky. It was the song, he realized. Playing an acoustic rendition of White Wedding didn't mean anything to him. Sure, it was a fun song, but there was no meat on the bone, nothing for him to get lost in.

Later, he would tell himself that he chose another song at random. Later, he would excuse away selecting that song by insisting it was the first one that popped into his head. Later, he could deal with the emotional fall-out of baring so much of himself in front of other people. But later was later.

Now, he started singing, “I met you in the dark. You lit me up. You made me feel as though I was enough.” 

He closed his eyes, pictured Steve, all elbows and knees, slinking across their middle school gym floor the night of their eighth grade formal. A disco ball splashed colors across the hardwoods. 

“We danced the night away. We drank too much.” 

Bucky could remember holding out his hand, asking the skinny kid no one else wanted anything to do with for a dance. Dancing with boys couldn't be wrong. It was just dancing.

The blue eyes that had looked at him had taken his breath away. Steve had seemed shocked. He'd appeared startled. In the end, he'd accepted Bucky's hand, and Bucky had pulled him amidst the other dancers. It had been the first time they'd realized there was something more between them.

“I held your hair back when you were throwing up,” he sang in a rough tenor, his voice rasping over the notes, and it all rushed back, the way his fingers worked the strings, the way his chest filled with a river of emotion, the way it broke through the dam and poured out on a tidal wave.

“Then you smiled over your shoulder. For a minute I was stone-cold sober. I pulled you closer to my chest.” 

In those moments, he relived losing their virginity together, the way he'd walked into Steve's bedroom, at the opposite end of the apartment from Sarah's, to find Steve nude, the ninth grader's willowy back curved from scoliosis, but that hadn't mattered to Bucky. It hadn't mattered, and he'd pulled his boyfriend's back snugly against his chest.

“I knew I loved you then, but you'd never know. 'Cause I played it cool when I was scared of letting go. I know I needed you, but I never showed, but I wanna stay with you until we're grey and old.”

Something wet chilled his cheek as it glided toward his lips.

“For a minute, I forget that I'm older. I wanna dance with you right now. Oh, and you look as beautiful as ever. And I swear that every day you'll get better. You make me feel this way somehow.” 

He remembered turning up at two in the morning on Steve's doorstep, drenched in rain water, eyes red from crying, hands shaking, sobbing about his parents sending him to conversion therapy. Clapping eyes on his Steve, on his boyfriend's loving face, was the only thing that could have settled him. No questions asked, Steve had pulled him through the apartment door and had held him through the tears.

Then again, after years of therapy, with his self-esteem in tatters and uncertain how he would ever feel whole again, he'd fled home for the final time, turned up on Steve's doorstep, reached for the one person who'd always been there through the years of abuse. No questions asked. No matter how long they'd been forced apart by parents who'd refused to let him stay friends with the openly queer kid.

Bucky remembered it all, and his voice soared into the chorus again. “I'm so in love with you. And I hope you know. Darling, your love is more than worth its weight in gold. We've come so far, my dear, look how we've grown. And I wanna stay with you until we're grey and old.

“I wanna live with you even when we're ghosts.”

God, it was stupid. When had he decided his fear of therapy was more important than Steve Rogers?

“'Cause you were always there for me when I needed you most.”

Like the weeks and months after his final therapy sessions. They'd been the worst. They'd caused the most damage. Dr. Sofen had exhausted the usual aversion therapies and had moved onto electroshock. The way the electricity had seized his body, stolen his ability to move, and locked his muscles into place had left him vulnerable and aching.

During that awful time, Steve and Sarah had held him through his tremors, held him when the nightmares woke him screaming in the middle of the night, when he'd been afraid Dr. Sofen would find him and drag him back to her office. She'd tried once. She'd turned up on the doorstep of the Rogers household. Sarah had punched Dr. Sofen right in the nose. Local authorities had “lost” the incident report Sofen had filed.

Stupid. So fucking stupid. How was anything more important than Steve? He was gonna let fear win?

So he opened his vocal cords and threw himself into the final chorus, hoping his pleading somehow reached beyond the roof and found Steve's ears. “I'm gonna love you 'til my lungs give out. I promise 'til death we part like in our vows. So I wrote this song for you. Now everybody knows. 'Cause now it's just you and me 'til we're grey and old. Just say you won't let go.”

He strummed the final chords, allowing them to resonate in the body of the guitar for long moments. The silence didn't last long. People broke into a wave of applause, but Bucky was still lost in that emotional place where nothing mattered but whether or not his chest could contain everything welling there or whether he would explode in a shower of sparks.

Warm hands closed over his, eased the guitar away and into the cause, and closed around his forearms. He wasn't terribly surprised to look up and find Brock crouched in front of him. Between Brock and Warren, Brock was always the more emotionally connected, Warren, the one who could be counted on to distract him and infuse him with cheer.

Brock's expression was inscrutable, his dark eyes roving Bucky's face for a few moments before the other man's dry lips pressed gently against his forehead. “Fuck, Kid. What you doing working at a bowling alley 'stead of recording music?”

Bucky huffed a breath, the veil finally slithering from his shoulders to allow him to reconnect with his surroundings. He pressed his forehead against Brock's. “Fuck.” Then, in a quieter voice, “Did I really just do that?”

“Yep.”

He let Brock help him off the stool. Warren packed away the guitar so they could clear the stage for the next performer, and some loud guy named Wade bounced on stage blubbering about trying to find something to follow up the impromptu performance by Elvis-fucking-Presley. It got the audience laughing again, distracting them from Bucky's minor meltdown.

His friends were good about giving him some space afterward. Warren and Candy headed off for the night, Warren agreeing to drop Bucky's guitar back off at his suite on their way. Brock pressed his mouth into Bucky's temple to leave instructions that he should call if he needed anything before wandering off with Sin, who tipped her head in Bucky's direction once. It felt like an acknowledgment.

Before he even had to order, Pietro set a fresh virgin daiquiri in front of him that Bucky nursed while allowing himself to come down from the endorphins. He'd forgotten how good it could feel playing in front of other people. Fuck, it must have been years. Last time he could remember playing in public was just after retaking an aircraft carrier that had been held by Somali pirates.

The spec ops unit he headed up had defeated the pirates and stayed on board to escort the carrier and its crew back to a friendly port. Him and the rest of his unit spent a night after the battle cooling off by having an impromptu jam session with some instruments they'd found on board.

Another wave of pirates had attacked the beleaguered ship the following morning, leading to a fire fight that had damn near severed his arm, leaving it heavily scarred and too weak to continue on as a sniper. Military life sitting behind a desk hadn't suited him, so he'd chosen retirement.

He focused more on his surroundings when another man approached and sat on the stool beside him. A twist of dread settled into the pit of his stomach. Briefly, he considered sinking through the floor to escape having to socialize, but that felt too much like running. Instead, he held his ground and took a long pull from his drink.

The guy next to him had a head full of dreadlocks. Some of them were gathered at the back of his skull into a partial pony-tail, and shocks of white hair liberally threaded his temples. He was a handsome man with a strong jaw, a broad nose, and thick lips, and Bucky felt a spike of indoctrinated shame at recognizing the tiny thrill of want he experienced.

They nodded to one another.

The guy ordered a rum and Coke and sipped the contents quietly.

It seemed like that would be the extent of their interaction when they both reached for a stack of coasters at the same time with which to catch the condensation on their drinks. Their hands brushed. The newcomer's laugh was rich in a way that caused warmth to rush down Bucky's spine.

“Sorry,” Bucky said and tucked his hands in his lap.

“No need for apologies,” the other man said. Haitian-French colored the man's accent, but it was obvious it had become watered down from years spent far from home.

The man spoke again to introduce himself. “Jericho Drumm.” He offered a strong hand.

Bucky accepted. “Bucky Buchanan.”

Slowly, they got to chatting, and it turned out Jericho was one of those types of people who made talking to them easy. He listened and contributed, filled the conversation without needing to dominate it. Bucky wasn't used to experiencing such an easy connection with someone.

Turned out his new friend was originally from Haiti but had gone to school in the US, and while he still traveled to his homeland often, it was no longer his primary residence. His brother, he explained, had been murdered a few years ago. Memories in Haiti were too much, so he'd taken a job in the States where he'd eventually met Tony Stark.

They had a lot in common, too. They both hated sports and saw no value in men dressing up in padding and chasing a pigskin around a playing field. Ultimate Fighting was just a bunch of steroid-enhanced peacocks who needed to beat each other to a pulp to prove themselves men. Golf was boring. They found most classical literature pretentious but were equally avid in their love of black and white film. They enjoyed working with their hands, loved the outdoors, and shared a dry sense of humor.

In short, it would have been love at first sight if Bucky weren't so repressed and so very much in love with one Steve Rogers. He did, however, count the meeting as a stroke of good fortune to have bumped into a new friend. He seemed to be making them in packs on the island.

Naturally, that was when a massive tree fell on his house of cards.

“I'm a psychotherapist. You?”

He froze. Glanced at his surroundings to find an easy escape but ultimately swallowed the instant jolt of panic past the tightness of his throat. “Freelance photographer and maintenance man.”

Jericho's smile was warm. “How many psychologists does it take to change a light bulb?”

He shrugged to say he had no idea.

“One, but the light bulb has to want to change.”

A little huff of laughter escaped. If anyone called him on it, he would deny deny deny.

“Why did Waldo go to therapy?”

“Don't know.”

“To find himself.”

At least the guy didn't seem to take himself too seriously. Bucky fidgeted uncomfortably.

“It troubles you that I'm a psychotherapist?”

Really, he didn't mean to say anything, but his thoughts kept going right back around to his earlier song and the realization that there was one thing he loved more than Steve Rogers: Fear of therapists. So he eventually said, “Had a really bad experience with a therapist. Let's just say she didn't have my best interest at heart. Not really a fan of the profession anymore.”

“Good thing I'm not here as your therapist, then, just a guy out having a drink after a long day.”

Then, suspicion slicked its way into his stomach when a thought came to him. It was pretty fucking convenient that he would run into a psychologist right after another blow-up with Steve on the subject, so he asked, “Did someone set you up to meet me?” Definitely wasn't expecting the truth.

“Yes.”

To say he was surprised by Jericho's candor was an understatement.

“Keeping secrets from a potential patient is not how I work. I was asked to speak with you outside a clinical setting. I'm happy to do that if it makes you more comfortable, but you should know you're welcome to walk out that door whenever you choose. I'm not going to chase you around with a net.”

Swallowing a gulp of daiquiri felt more like attempting to swallow a rock. He clenched his hands in an effort to keep them from shaking and became aware of the line of sweat running down his back.

“Take a deep breath and blow it out slowly. Concentrate on counting your breaths.”

He did and was surprised when the panic eased off enough for him to function.

“Why did I just do that? Why the fuck did I obey your instructions when I hate therapists?”

“Lots of reasons for people to be responsive to authority figures. Could be you've been primed by this other therapist you had a bad experience with to respond favorably to suggestions. I can't give you any sort of concrete reason without access to your medical records and a full clinical assessment. Those aren't things I would ever do without your consent.”

“Y-you wouldn't?” To say that he was standing on a razor's edge was putting it mildly. Dr. Sofen had never asked for his consent for any of the procedures he'd undergone. He'd just assumed Jericho had already looked into his files.

“Of course not. That would be unethical. Look, if you want to talk to me, I can make time in my schedule.” Jericho retrieved a card from his back pocket and slid it across the bar top. “You don't have to call this number. I certainly won't hound you. You should know, though, that nothing is going to change for you until you're willing to change it yourself. I can help you find coping strategies, but nothing happens without your consent.”

That said, Jericho knocked back the rest of his drink and strolled from the bar, leaving Bucky staring in his wake. Bucky, who didn't know his head from a hole in the ground and still listened to the ghosts of his parents' voices screaming from a pulpit that he was on a road toward damnation. Bucky who had allowed fear to come between him and Steve.

Instead of throwing the card away the way he should have, he tucked it into his back pocket and ordered a goddamn bourbon. That bourbon was fine. It was the six others that followed that were his undoing as he attempted to chase away the knowledge Steve had overstepped his boundaries by sicking Jericho on him despite knowing his aversion to therapists.

And maybe he would have forgotten about meeting Jericho Drumm. Maybe he would have completely ignored what had happened on that stage during Open Mic night. Maybe he would have continued on the road toward self-destruction. He probably would have were it not for slipping back into Steve's suite with every intention of chewing him out for sending Drumm after him only to find Scott curled protectively around Steve's body.

The two men were tangled together, one of Scott's legs tucked between Steve's. Scott's palm cradled Steve's stomach. His chin was tucked over Steve's shoulder. His groin was snugged up against Steve's ass, the picture of domestic bliss. And it fucking hit him like a ton of bricks. That could be him. The easiness between Scott and Steve should be his.

A firestorm of jealousy reared its ugly head. Sure, it was pure childishness when he ripped the covers off the bed and its occupants, but it wasn't like Steve hadn't already accused him of being childish a million times before. Kinda hard to mature when you were stuck in adolescence by the ghost of a woman who'd convinced you that you had no agency in our own life. Thank you, Karla-fucking-Sofen.

Both men jumped. Scott shot out of bed. It was probably a credit to his character that he put himself between Steve and their unexpected attacker, but Bucky wasn't in any frame of mind to award Scott Summers character points, so they wound up just staring each other down.

“Buck?” Steve's voice was sleep-slurred. 

“You sending therapists after me now, Steve?” he shouted.

“You're drunk,” his ex-husband accused.

Giggling, he responded, “Yep,” and popped the 'p' the way he knew annoyed the shit out of Steve.

“Scott, can you give us some privacy?”

“Sir?” To say that Scott looked apprehensive would have been an understatement.

“We're fine here. Go back to Jean. Thank you for earlier.”

Bucky, flopping over on the sofa, waved fingers at Scott's retreating form. Once the other man disappeared, his feigned casual posture dissipated into something rigid. “Jericho Drumm.”

“You need to see someone, Buck. You can't keep going on the way you have been.”

“You've got no fucking right. You divorced me, remember?”

“You cried yourself to sleep every time we made love!”

He stuttered. “I--” Trying to find a response seemed impossible. “I d-don't remember-- Yeah, I got emotional, but it was just a couple of times.”

“Buck.” The earnestness of Steve's voice became a palpable thing. He knelt down on the floor between Bucky's spread legs. “Bucky, every time. We'd make love, and I would listen to you cry, and God, I wanted to hold you so badly, but whenever I drew attention to the pain you were in, you denied how much it was affecting you.”

“Every time?”

“They made you ashamed of what your body's capable of. They tortured you, Jelly Belly. Nothing I did helped, and it seemed like being with me made it worse. It put you in direct opposition with the shit that damned doctor filled your head with, and you wouldn't hear of getting help.

“I'm not gonna sit here and blame our divorce on your issues. God knows I've got enough issues of my own to fill a basket. But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a deciding factor. They hurt you so bad. I couldn't bear to hurt you, too. I couldn't bear for us to be co-dependent anymore.”

Bucky didn't realize he was crying until he snuffled back snot dripping from his nose. It was the kind of ugly crying that made you call your mom seeking the most basic of human comforts. Only his ma was somewhere in Indiana living life as a Sunday School teacher filling a new generation of heads with Hellfire and Brimstone, with shame and self-hatred.

“I can't have a normal sex life,” he said through his tears. “They won't let me.”

“Please, baby. Please let Jericho help you figure out how to root them out of your mind.”

Slowly, he allowed himself to collapse forward into Steve's waiting arms. “I don't wanna be afraid anymore. I don't wanna hurt anymore.”

“I know, Jelly Belly.” Steve kissed the crown of his head and held him through his tears. There were a lot of tears backed up that needed to come out.

XXXXX

Bucky called Dr. Drumm the next morning to set up an appointment for later that afternoon. For an hour afterward, he hunched over the toilet in his suite heaving his guts up, unable to move for the anxiety churning his stomach. Warren sat with him for a while. Then Brock, but they both had busy schedules and couldn't just take a day off work because he was freaking the fuck out.

Eventually, the cramping eased enough for him to eat a few crackers and allowed him to move more than a few feet away from a bathroom. He wandered the island, then, with his new camera and snapped photographs of things that interested him: a seagull perched atop the shell of a leatherback turtle, the patterns etched into the sand from successive waves washing ashore, a hibiscus in full bloom. 

He'd forgotten what it felt like to take photos for his own enjoyment, what it was like to look through the view finder and see a magical world full of color and life instead of dollar signs. Capturing beauty, preserving the reality of the human condition, those were the reasons he'd originally fallen in love with photography, not the shock and awe photography sold to yellow journalism rags.

It took him out of his head for a while and brought back fond memories and a sense of nostalgia. Back before all the bad stuff, before his ma had discovered homoerotic porn while cleaning his room, before meetings with their pastor, before a summer spent at a youth ranch designed to stop his homosexual urges, before Dr. Karla Sofen, they'd been a family. Ma waking them every morning with the smell of eggs, bacon, and coffee. Dad spending an hour each day playing with his kids after the end of his shift at the telephone company. Becca twirling around in her costume for the church Christmas pageant.

One particular year as they'd been getting ready for their annual fishing trip, Dad had presented him with his very first camera, an early Polaroid with a flash bar and boxes of film. He'd been so excited that he'd gone through an entire box of film before they'd even left for the trip. Somewhere, he still had the very first picture he'd ever taken, a candid shot of Dad standing with arms wrapped around Ma's waist in their kitchen with its sunny yellow cabinets and gray wood paneling.

But then everything had changed, starting with his parents driving them to West Virginia when Becca had turned eighteen where another branch of their particular denomination existed. There was a young man there from a prominent family looking for a wife. Becca had found out they intended to marry her to this stranger and had run away. Since she'd been eighteen, his parents hadn't had any recourse to force her hand, and Bucky had only spoken to her a handful of times since.

Then had come all the bad things involving Dr. Sofen culminating in Bucky fleeing the house one rainy night after a particularly bad therapy session. He could still remember the fight, his parents' disappointment, Dad screaming that no son of his would commit sodomy. The door cracking closed behind him had sounded so final. Turned out, it had been a finality. 

So much had changed since, and Bucky was desperate to hang onto one thing that couldn't be tainted. The photos he took that morning were some of the best he'd taken. Crisp. Clean. Full of beauty and texture. So unlike the gloom he'd existed in since the divorce.

When his appointment finally rolled around, he was calm enough to not be climbing out of his skin. An assistant led him from the waiting room and showed him back into what turned out to be a rather casual environment. Jericho sat, not behind a desk, but in a comfortable arm chair in a pair of jeans and a button down. It took some of the authority out of his presence. There wasn't the same clear delineation between “patient” and “therapist” that Dr. Sofen had always insisted upon.

“I'm glad you called, Bucky.”

“Yeah? That makes one of us.” He clamped his hands between his knees to avoid fidgeting.

“Do you not want to be here?”

“Does anybody wanna bare their soul to a therapist?”

“That doesn't answer the question.”

Bucky huffed. He picked at his cuticles. “I know I gotta do something different. Otherwise I'm never gonna have a normal sex life. Need to get myself right in the head.”

“Your medical transcripts arrived a couple of ours ago. I haven't finished going over them, yet, but we can still get started on narrowing down what you'd like to get out of therapy.”

“I don't know.”

“I'll need you to do better than 'I don't know.'”

“Guess I just wanna have sex without feeling awful afterward. You know, have a normal sex life.”

“How would you define a normal sex life?”

“Not fucking breaking down into tears after you've just made love with your husband,” he said with a waspish sting, like it should be fucking obvious. “My libido's shot. Sometimes it's fucking impossible for me to get a hard on. And when I do have sex, it's okay-- I mean, I can get off okay, but afterward, I feel dirty. Like I've done something I gotta apologize for. Then I wind up regretting having sex.”

“This causes you significant stress?”

“Don't ask me shit you already know the answer to, Doc. Course it does. My husband fucking divorced me because I couldn't be normal in bed. Well, he says it differently, but it boils down to the fact I couldn't be close to him without feeling ashamed of myself.”

“Why do you think you feel shame following sex?”

Bucky's knee jiggled. He wrapped both arms around his waist like that would somehow protect him from Jericho's questions, like he could keep the doctor from realizing how torn up and broken he was inside. He clenched the meat of his cheek between white teeth.

“Don't know.” Metallic blood warmed his tongue.

“Yes, you do, Bucky.”

The proverbial tea kettle shrieked as tension building inside snapped. He jolted to his feet. “Enough with the zen Buddhist bullshit, Doc. Enough of the introspective questions. You gonna fix me? Then fucking fix me. What's it gonna be? You gonna sit me down in front of a TV screen? Make me masturbate to gay porn so I can associate homo-erotica with something that feels good?”

His ears rang in the wake of his outburst, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. Couldn't roll over and expose his soft underbelly. He couldn't handle the idea of removing his armor piece by piece or thrusting his hand toward Jericho and letting the doc hammer needles into his skin.

Jericho watched him for a moment before motioning toward the chair Bucky had vacated. The man opened several browser tabs and pulled up various articles before pushing the tablet across the low table between them.

“Dr. Karla Sofen is one of the leading proponents of Reparative Therapy, which is just another term for Conversion Therapy. Aversion Therapy falls under the umbrella of these types of psychological approaches. So does Conformation Therapy, which teaches people to conform to a heternormative lifestyle. Dr. Sofen has worked for years to have Reparative Therapy listed in the APA as an accepted form of therapy for changing a person's sexual orientation.

“Studies have shown these types of therapies can lead to a lack of interest in sexual intercourse, low self-esteem, depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, and suicide attempts among many other things. People who've endured Dr. Sofen's regime often struggle with feelings of shame, feelings of being conflicted, and an increase in fearfulness. All this is compounded when the patient also loses their family and struggles through a religious crisis.”

Bucky crept back into the chair and leaned over to look through the articles Jericho pulled up.

“No major study has ever shown a significant percentage of genuine change in sexual orientation. Those that do contain flawed methodology. What these studies do show are people left in the wake of conversion therapy who struggle to find a sense of safety and belonging in the world. You've been taught to hate your body's desires, so you don't fit in with the gay community. At the same time, you no longer fit in with your family and religious community.

“Of course you're struggling with feelings of shame and a lack of belonging. Why the Hell would you feel any sense of peace when some hack who calls herself a psychologist pulled you apart one fiber at a time and put you back together wrongly? Of course you feel lost and adrift. Of course you're having a hard time accepting your body's desires. Why the Hell would you after what you've been through?”

Bucky dropped back against the backrest of his chest, surprised by the vehemence in Jericho's tone. The man looked angry. Worse than that, he looked spitting mad. Not at Bucky, but on Bucky's behalf.

“You're not alone. You're not an aberration. There are a depressing number of stories just like your thanks to religious conservatism and parents who are lured in by people selling snake oil with promises of teaching their children to be normal. For whatever definition of normal they think is accurate. 

“Now, I can help you find peace in your life. We can deconstruct the maladaptive behaviors Dr. Sofen drilled into your head at an impressionable age, but it won't be easy, and it won't involve torturing you into accepting something that's against your core beliefs.

“What I'm offering is a process that can change your critical thinking skills in a supportive environment. This is important, Bucky. I am not going to fix you. It's up to you to do the fixing. You have to do the hard work. Think of me as your wise, old owl leading you to the information you need to come to a place of peace and acceptance.”

Searching himself for a way to accept Jericho's help wasn't easy when every instinct screamed that he should get the Hell out before he was hurt. But he thought about last night, about the song that reminded him so much of Steve and him. He thought about how he'd allowed fear to drive a wedge through his marriage and finally said, “Yeah, okay. Let's do that.”

“Then this is your homework. I'm sending you links to these case studies. Read them before our next session and start thinking about how their experiences line up with your own. Then you're going to make a list of maladaptive behaviors you struggle with on a day to day basis. Sound good?”

“Not really, but I suppose I'm willing to do it.”

“For now, we'll stick with two appointments a week. If you leave the island, we can very easily set up video conference sessions. This isn't something that needs to be done face to face if you're more comfortable outside a clinical environment.”

“So we could do this over Skype?”

“Absolutely.”

“Let's do that, then.”

After setting up his next appointment, he stuffed hands in pockets and left Dr. Drumm's office. He didn't particularly feel great after leaving. Talking about his experiences hadn't miraculously cured him, but he recognized a tiny seed of hope fighting against a general sense of malaise. It was a spark of color where there had been only gray. That was enough, he supposed, for now.


	12. You'll Have An Instant Heart Attack If I Jack You Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint makes a decision. Steve edges Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brief hiatus. I went to Denver, CO on vacation. Hang on while I get caught up with my posting schedules.
> 
> Warning: This chapter earns the whole contradiction of religious teaching tag. If you're sensitive to that sort of thing, be wary when reading the scene where Steve edges Bucky. There's a lot of stuff going on in this chapter about various religions perpetuating the teaching that sexuality is sinful and Steve trying to help Bucky overcome that mindset and accept himself as a sexual person.
> 
> Note: Bucky plays Steve a cover of Snow Patrol's Chasing Cars. I imagined it to be like this cover: https://youtu.be/R5H7kQQqURQ

The paper stared up at him. At the top, bold letters inscribed “Application for Employment.” Below that, it began with a blank line asking for his full name. Clint looked at the pen in his hand and the paper, braced against a clipboard. He printed “Clint Francis Barton.”

Taking that first step sent his insides quivering. The idea of going back to New York after their undercover operation ended filled him with dread. He shouldn't feel that way if being a cop meant as much to him as he thought it did. There was a time when he'd wanted nothing more. Some part of him recognized his career choice hadn't had enough to do with personal desire as it did making him feel more like the man he was.

Clint nearly jumped out of his skin when Nat emerged around the hedges to plop onto the bench next to him. He couldn't stuff the clip board beneath his thigh quickly enough to avoid her eagle eyes, and they engaged in a minor tug of war before he ultimately relinquished the application to her prying.

She hummed. She butted her shoulder against his.

“Aren't you gonna say something?”

“Where'd you get this notion that it's my duty to tell you how to live your life?”

“Guess I'm used to it.”

“Fuck, Clip-Clopping-Scallywag. You want to retire from police work and carve yourself out a slice of this paradise to trim the verges, then I'll pack you some sunscreen.”

“We're partners, and we've never been terribly close. I thought--” He stopped speaking upon noticing the flash of hurt behind her eyes, an emotion that was almost instantly veiled. “I didn't mean-- Nat.” He turned to grasp her hands.

“I know I'm not an easy person to be close to.” She turned her glance away from his. “Sometimes it's hard to know who I am when I'm not even sure myself. Being someone else is easier.”

“You do keep people at arm's length. You're really good at that, by the way.”

They sat in silence for a while, and it wasn't until some time had passed that he realized their fingers were still laced together, that they sat with shoulders pressed together holding hands and warming themselves in a patch of sunshine. Being beside her was nice for a change. Now that he wasn't worried about her finding out his secret. Now that he wasn't religiously guarding himself.

He'd forgotten what it felt like to be open with another person, and it was comfortable. And she didn't even badger him for details about his date. A pleasant surprise.

Eventually, he broke the silence to ask, “What did Fury want yesterday?”

“James Barnes called into the hotline. We're supposed to meet him soon to collect the photographic evidence in his possession. Says he has photos of the murder with enough detail for a clear identification of our perp.”

“And you decided this wasn't something I needed to know ASAP?”

“A rabid bear couldn't make me interrupt your date last night, buddy. Besides, I'm telling you now.”

“This mean we'll be recalled to New York soon?”

“No, we've got orders to stay here as protection detail for Barnes.”

Relief sagged his shoulders. The idea of leaving Wanda didn't sit comfortably. Nat must have noticed his discomfort and reached across to tap the edge of the clip board, and together, they enjoyed a few quiet moments while he filled in his necessary information. Being a landscaper hadn't ever crossed his mind before, but he liked the physicality of the work. He liked choosing flowers that complimented ground cover that made the world beautiful. It was beauty instead of blood.

Clint's cell phone interrupted the flow of their conversation. He answered without bothering to look at the incoming number and was startled to hear Dr. Banner's voice on the other end of the connection. His therapist's voice was gruff but held a note of warmth, like cinnamon tea on a winter evening. 

Or at least it did for the first thirty seconds of the phone call. Warmth leeched from the man's tone the longer Bruce complained about Clint skipping their last two scheduled appointments. His excuse--“Honestly, Doc, I'm on an island in the Pacific working undercover as a landscaper, my partner's a belligerent Russian, and we gotta see a man about a dildo in ten minutes”--bought him zero relief from the icy chill of a pissed off Bruce Banner.

Disliking his therapist wasn't the problem. They'd spent the better part of seven years working together. Banner had given him the references necessary to undergo reassignment surgery. Bruce and him worked well together. He liked--“Honest, Doc, I'm not avoiding you”--Bruce Banner.

It was just that Bruce--“You need to touch base with me, Clint, so we can talk about a joint therapy session with your brother”--Banner didn't like him. So they could work on their relationship. The same Barney Barton who'd attempted to send him to conformation therapy in hopes of making him comfortable living as his biological sex. The same Barney Barton who still refused to refer to him with male pronouns despite repeated requests.

“Look, can I call you back later? Now really isn't a good time.”

“Therapy burn out, Clint.”

“I've got a Putin-loving Russian sitting beside me. Since Putin's probably in bed with Trump, that makes her a Putin-loving-Trump-stroking Russian sitting--”

“Your issues with Barney won't magically disappear,” Bruce said.

“She's glaring at me now. Sort of like I'm a fascinating bug under a magnifying glass.”

Natasha rolled her eyes.

Bruce said, “If I'm no longer challenging you as your therapist, then we need to evaluate whether or not it's time for you to find a therapist who will. A Putin-loving-Trump-stroking Russian is a dangerous situation, I'm sure but not as dangerous as falling behind on your therapy goals now that you've attained a measure of peace from your body dysphoria.”

“No!” He figured there was a little too much zing on that denial and backed it down a notch. “No, it's not that. I couldn't imagine going on this journey with anyone but you.”

“Then help me to help you. It might feel like you don't need therapy anymore, but getting burned out is quite common. We need to make sure you don't regress while taking a break. For example, are you still struggling with sexual maladjustment?”

He turned sideways and covered his mouth and the bottom half of his phone with his free hand. “She's gonna eat me, Doc. I'm telling you....”

Finally, Natasha released a very put-upon sigh, got up, and padded some distance away. “Talk to your therapist, Clegolas. Before I shove that phone down your throat.”

Her retreat allowed his shoulders to sag.

“Sex was amazing and wonderful and awful, and I felt like I fumbled my way through the whole thing, which means Wanda probably won't ever call me back, and how am I supposed to please a woman?”

“Finally.”

Clint imagined the long-suffering look Bruce likely wore.

“You've had a successful sexual encounter then?”

“Depending on your definition of successful.”

“Look, it's not uncommon for people who've transitioned to experience a certain amount of dissociation while becoming a sexual being again. Our sexual habitus develops throughout our lives as we interact with the world from various gendered and socioeconomic positions. If you're used to approaching sex from a certain mindset, suddenly reorienting your sexual practices around a different point of view can be difficult. This is why continuing with therapy is so important for you.”

“Bruce. You're therapy-talking at me again.”

“You're used to engaging in sex with female genitalia and female behavior learned through our gendered society. The way females relate to sex is completely different from the way males do. The way we, as individuals, relate to sex is even more divisive. You need to relearn an entire different set of behaviors. Your sexual habitus is evolving, and that's a good thing. It's normal for you to feel dissociated from the act your first time. You'd know this if you bothered keeping appointments.”

He cringed. “Sorry. Sorry, Doc.”

“You're not a Frisbee, and I won't chase you around like one. Keep your appointments, and talk to Bernard about joining us in a joint therapy session.”

“I will. Promise.”

“Do you promise, or are you just trying to get me off the phone again?”

“Dude-- Sorry. Doc, last thing I want is you getting angry with me again. I don't like you when you're angry. Next appointment, I'm there. Barring, you know, death. Or dismemberment. Or being adrift on the ocean. Or, you know, getting marooned on an isolated island somewhere in the Pacific.”

XXXXX

Behind a privacy wall and in the midst of a plum orchard, Clint finally caught sight of James Barnes. The guy lounged on a patio, legs stretched in front of him, and affecting a casual posture despite how quickly he became aware of their approach. All traces of relaxation disappeared when he saw them, so much so that Steve Rogers reached across the table to lace their fingers together.

Clint produced his credentials. “Detective Clint Barton.”

“Detective Natasha Romanoff,” his partner introduced herself.

“You were on my short list of possible James Barneses,” Clint informed him. “It's the military swagger. Soon as I knew you were hiding under an old military identity, the gig was up.”

“Chief Fury sent us,” said Nat.

James still appeared incredibly tense, even with Steve's reassurances. “Before we get started, I just wanna make it known that I trust you 's far as I could throw a cow. Which isn't very far.”

“Buck--”

“Don't 'Buck' me, Stevie. Luis is missing two fingers, an eye, and one testicle 'cause of the boys in blue. Witness protection is shit. It's like trying to catch rain water with a sieve.”

“Two fingers, an eye, and one nut?” Clint asked, appalled.

“Drug cartel.”

“He was running drugs and became an informant?”

James' expression flattened. “Just 'cause he's Mexican, you jump to the conclusion he was the one dealing? Fuck right off with your white nationalist bullshit.”

Clint presented hands in surrender. Finding out there were blind spots in his own bigotry was like a smack to the face. He really shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. “Sorry. My foul.”

“Witnessed his cousin get murdered during a drug deal gone wrong. Drug cartels don't take kindly to people agreeing to take the stand against them.”

“But police officers got there in time to save his life?”

Bucky leaned forward and braced an elbow against the patio table. “I ain't looking to lose a testicle, Detective Barton. Or any body parts for that matter.”

“Tayte Hanson only has one testicle,” Nat interjected, “and he does just fine as a porn star.”

In an effort to steer the conversation, Steve said, “I think we're getting a touch off-topic here. Can you promise to protect Bucky if he turns over the photos and agrees to testify?”

“This is an incredibly controlled environment. No one arrives or leaves this island without someone knowing about it, which means we'll have an easier time safeguarding Mr. Barnes,” responded Clint. “You agree to testify, and we'll do everything in our power to keep you alive.”

“Means you want to keep me here on the island until the trial?”

“That's the plan.”

Bucky and Steve exchanged a glance before Barnes produced a manilla envelope and pushed it across the tabletop. Clint opened the package and thumbed through a series of pictures that became increasingly gory. It was smoking gun evidence depicting Black Cat in the act of killing the airport baggage technician and even included a full-frontal shot as she rounded on Barnes' position.

“Black Cat is only a stepping stone, mind you,” Natasha said. “We've been investigating a criminal entity known only as “the Father.” No one who's seen him has managed to live long enough to identify him to authorities. Black Cat is our first concrete link. If we can get her to roll on her boss, then you'll be helping us put away a very nasty character, so it's essential you cooperate with our investigation.”

“Dude's into some real shady practices that's resulted in a slew of murders and the sale of illegal substances. Guy's most recently been involved in the illegal import or a substance known as ionic energy. Far as we can tell, he's attempting to use it to cause targeted mutations in the human genome.”

“Sounds like a nasty piece of work,” Steve said.

“Chief Fury's gonna want to interview you himself, make sure we got all the information while it's still somewhat fresh in your mind. We'll set that up via polycom. Meanwhile, you just sit tight.” Nat reached over to pat Bucky's hand. “Clint and me will be here to protect you. Let us know if anyone starts asking questions about your or if you notice anyone suspicious.”

Steve spoke up then, saying, “Actually, there's a guy I've been working with who has asked about Bucky. Goes by Alexander Pierce. He personally requested for Bucky to sub for him.”

“You leave Pierce to us. We'll see if he's a suspect,” instructed Clint. “In the meantime, you lay low.”

Nat confiscated the photos following the meeting to fax them to Fury, and they spent a couple of hours going over the case with their chief before parting for the remainder of the day. His partner's evening involved the submissive she'd been assigned, some guy who went by Daredevil, while Clint grabbed take out and went off to find Wanda.

If he was honest with himself, he dreaded her reaction. They hadn't seen each other since having sex, and part of him worried she regretted them being intimate together. Those fears proved groundless. The moment she caught sight of him loitering around her cleaning trolley, she greeted him by throwing both arms around his neck and kissing him. With enthusiasm.

Together, they headed down to a private beach, the one where they'd shared their first kiss, where she unfurled a check picnic blanket across the sand. After sitting, she arranged the voluminous folds of her skirt around her legs and chatted about her day and some of the amusing and horrific things housekeeping had to deal with when working in BDSM Mecca. He suggested she make an Instagram account: Things Found In the Rooms of a Sex Resort. 

He wasn't sure what brought up the subject, but after a while, he stretched out to pillow his head on her lap, gentle fingers combing through his hair, and told her about Barney. About losing their parents. About Barney, ten years his senior, being awarded custody of him where he spent summers traveling with the carnival circuit and performing odd jobs while his brother worked as a ride jockey. 

An ocean breezed whipped tendrils of her hair free of the scarf it was wrapped in. He idly caught a strand and tucked it behind her ear without missing a beat in regaling her with the tale of Barney's one and only stint as the carnival mascot. Chippy Canoe was a fat chipmunk suit used to drum up enthusiasm and entertain kids while waiting in ride lines. The evening had ended with Barney at the bottom of a pile of children screeching about them stealing his acorns.

Clint still had video evidence.

There were plenty of fond memories to go along with it, plenty of times where Barney would catch some boys harassing Clint back before he new he was trans. Eventually, everybody learned not to mess with Barney Barton's little sister. He even remembered his first disastrous date with Mike Ellis.

Mike had wanted to get in Clint's pants, and when Clint hadn't put out, he'd gone around accusing Clint of being easy and insinuating Clint had an STI. He'd been so humiliated by the end of the night that he'd run back to their trailer in tears. Barney hadn't cussed him out for putting himself in a bad situation; he'd just made him drink a shot of Jack Daniels and sat up playing poker with him.

The concept of throwing away all those memories without giving them every chance to work things out left him feeling hollow inside. They'd been through too much together to throw away their relationship without trying everything possible to salvage it.

He grabbed his cell and sent a quick text that read, “miss u.”

Not thirty seconds later, he got a response. “miss u 2, brat.”

“Bruce wants the 3 of us 2 talk   
like have a session together   
can we?”

“Bruce is ur therapist?”

“yep.”

“Set it up. Let me no when.”

“thanks  
love you”

“U 2, Chloe.”

Three dots came up to indicate Barney was typing.

“Clint.”

Nothing had ever felt so good as having that name used by his brother. He rested his phone face down on his stomach. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to enjoy the quiet without filling silence with racing thoughts.

Eventually, Wanda found his hand and tangled their fingers together.

XXXXX

Steve allowed himself a moment to admire the shape of Bucky's body sitting at his patio table, the fine lines etched between his eyebrows as they narrowed in concentration. His ex was hunched over some paperwork scribbling in his patently messy scrawl. Seeing Bucky so focused on a task was rare.

“Whatcha working on?” he asked while setting a tray of tea on the table. He poured two cups and sweetened the chocolate variety his ex had become obsessed with.

“Homework for Jericho.”

“Want me to leave you alone?”

Buck stopped writing and flexed his fingers. He sipped the tea Steve placed next to him and seemed to engage in some internal battle between sharing that part of his life and keeping it well-hidden. “I'm supposed to fill out one of these forms every time I have a maladaptive thought. You know, teach me the process from stimulus to behavior, I guess. Something about deconstructing my behavior so we can figure out how to change it.”

“Sounds like it could be helpful.”

“Yeah, well, Jericho's a fucking slave driver if you want my opinion.”

Steve smiled around the rim of his tea cup, as he knew better than to take Bucky's statement seriously. His ex-husband hadn't learned how to accept with grace that someone else might be right, so anyone who challenged his worldview, anyone he respected, fell into what Steve called the “I love you, but” syndrome. The day Bucky Barnes said a sincere and earnest “I love you” was the day Steve Rogers started looking for alien invaders.

Watching Bucky finally blossoming was a privilege. Maybe others would have been bored while their ex-husband did his therapy homework, but Steve was just grateful. Grateful to be a part of Bucky's life again. Grateful they got to spend an afternoon without arguing. Grateful to witness Bucky's resiliency.

It struck him suddenly that his ex had always known how to take care of Steve, even when Steve had been so weak from chronic diarrhea he'd barely been able to get out of bed, or was back in the hospital for the umpteenth time for a rectal abscess and resulting fistula. But Bucky had never been good at taking care of himself. There he was, nearing forty, finally taking the steps to treat himself with as much dignity as he'd always treated Steve.

He smiled around the rim of his mug and continued to watch ink spill across the page. _You love this man,_ he thought to himself. _This is the man you love. Here is the man you fell in love with at your eighth grade winter formal who made you feel like the only other person in the world._ It occurred him, then, that he should probably do something about his feelings.

XXXXX

The following week went by in a flash of routine for Steve and the island staff. He taught classes mostly. A couple of people personally requested him for an edging session. Alexander transferred over to the dominant side of the island, leaving behind and exorbitant tip in the shape of a Hublot Black Caviar Bang. It was a million dollar watch encrusted with black diamonds. The fact that he locked it away in his safe without making a fuss was a statement as to how often he received pricy gifts.

A couple of late arrivals required his attention. Mr. Luchino Nefaria was one of those wealthy men from an aristocratic Italian family who enjoyed being pampered. It was his first time on the island, but all his papers and medical checks had cleared, and he was accompanied by a young woman. They were partnered with Bobbi to make a threesome, and Steve didn't pay them any more attention, content now that Pierce had been moved some distance away from Bucky.

Steve took off early one afternoon for a doctor's appointment; his gastrointerologist was hounding him to have another colonoscopy to ensure there was no inflammation in his gut. Some part of his reluctance had more to do with protesting the idea of having the procedure done every five years. Dr. Erskine called it “disease fatigue;” he was so sick of ordering his life around the possibility of a Crohn's flare that he wanted nothing to do with anything relating to his intestines and immune system.

Stress from the appointment fled, though, as soon as he stepped into his private villa to hear the gentle sounds of a guitar being strummed. A smile came to him, and he padded into the common room where Bucky sat playing his instrument. The man's singing voice was a breathy tenor.

Steve wasn't sure about the song being performed. It was one he hadn't heard before, but he settled himself on the armchair across from his ex-husband to watch nimble fingers fly across the frets. The way Bucky lost himself in his music was special. People sang. A lot of people on the island were talented. Steve had been to a few of the Open Mic nights at Pietro's bar.

When Bucky performed, it wasn't just singing. He emoted. He made a person feel the lyrics deep inside their guts until the words became an audible manifestation of their life experiences. Bucky believed what he sang, and because he believed it, Steve couldn't help but internalize the emotions. Nor could he stop the trickle of moisture that ran down his cheek.

Something was amiss, though. Steve closed the lid of Bucky's guitar case.

“What happened to Catbug?” 

There used to be a sticker of Catbug plastered on Bucky's guitar case, a memento of the first time they'd admitted their feelings for each other. Bucky had sent him a clip of the Bravest Warriors with Catbug proclaiming “I love you.”

Bucky stopped strumming abruptly.

Steve reached up to smooth the raised ridge between the other man's brows.

“The fridge broke down. I needed the money.”

“Oh Bucky. You pawned your guitar?”

He nodded.

“Why didn't you call me?”

Bucky offered up a look that said he clearly questioned Steve's sanity.

“Stupid question. I'm so sorry, Jelly Belly. God, I'm so sorry.”

“Just, stop, okay? It's over.” Bucky blinked away moisture in his eyes. “It's over. I'm sick of living in the past. Aren't you?”

Steve nodded.

Bucky strummed a new set of chords, chords Steve recognized immediately. Moments later, his voice caressed familiar words from a song they'd shared in their most intimate moments.

“I don't quite know how to say how I feel. Those three words are said too much. They're not enough. If I lay here. If I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

God, how had he forgotten? How had he ever thought he could stop loving Bucky Barnes?

“All that I am, all that I ever was, is here in your perfect eyes. They're all I can see.”

Steve suddenly joined in, his voice taking the deeper harmony while Bucky's soared overhead, their voices mingling, merging, becoming something better than before. “I don't know where, confused about how as well, just know that these things will never change for us at all. If I lay here, if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

 _Grown ass man closer to forty than thirty and you're practically bawling your eyes out over your ex-husband's absurd talent,_ he said to himself. When Bucky's fingers stilled, Steve dropped onto his knees to close the space between them palms cupping his ex-husband's face.

“Forgive me,” pleaded Steve. “I made a mistake. I made a huge mistake. There's never been anyone who's meant anything close to what you mean to me. I love you, Bucky. You're part of me, and I love you, and I want to try again. I know I hurt you, but can we please try again?”

For a moment, Bucky looked like a deer in headlights, uncertain which way to dodge in order to avoid the impending collision. A breath slipped through his lips. He eased the guitar from between them, settled it against the sofa, and pulled Steve closer. Their breath ghosted against one another. “You got any idea how long I waited to hear you say that? You got even the foggiest fucking inkling, sugar pie? I been in love with you before I knew what love was. But you hurt me real bad, Stevie. I couldn't take it if you hurt me like that again.”

“I know, and I'll understand if you can never forgive or trust me again.” Pain tightened his chest, but he started to pull away to give Bucky some room only for Bucky to grasp his hand.

“I didn't say 'no,'” breathed Bucky.

Time stopped ticking between them. They were on the cusp of something. Steve drank in the sight as emotions shifted across Buck's expressive face, tension followed by confusion and finally openness. For the first time in years, he got the sense he was witnessing his ex-husband allowing himself to be vulnerable, and he smoothed his thumb along the arch of the other man's cheekbone.

“I love you,” Bucky said, “but you're still a stubborn asshole. We got one shot to make this work again. Things go south, then there's not gonna be any pieces left to pick up. So you gotta be sure you're in this for the long haul. Understand?”

Steve nodded. “Whatever it takes.”

“Then I got a couple of conditions. You wanna edge people and give lectures, that's fine, but I couldn't handle the idea of you fucking other people. I'm just not built that way. Second, you being close with Scott is fine, but you gotta be close with me like that, too. It'd eat me up inside if you were always running to him to be emotionally fulfilled.”

“I haven't fucked a client in a long time anyway. That's not what I get out of being a dom.”

Bucky seemed surprised.

“Honest. Sexual gratification isn't the objective for me. It's being in control; it's having someone trust me so much they're willing to put their safety and needs in my hands. It's the joy of helping them fulfill some intrinsic need they can't get anywhere else and helping them process deep emotions that won't come out any other way. There's a definite sexual component to what I do, but it's not the main draw.”

“Final condition. You're gonna show me what it's like to submit to you. Being in kink is important for you. I wanna be involved in that aspect of your life. Help me learn how to be your sub.”

“You gotta be sure about this, Buck. If I were to ever hurt you, I'd never forgive myself.”

“I'm sure. Green. I consent.”

Rolling to his feet, Steve pulled Bucky up and guided them both downstairs into his private playroom with its rich, mahogany walls. The stillness gave it a womb-like atmosphere. Built in shelves and drawers contained a wide range of supplies, from paddles to canes to crops to restraints. An anal hook rested on a shelf, but that was way more advanced than Bucky was ready for.

Once there, he undressed his ex-husband, peeled away the layers of inhibitions to reveal the molten core, and it became obvious pretty quickly Bucky was still shy about his nudity. The man turned his toes inward, dropped his head low and to the side to avoid making eye contact. But Steve was having none of that.

He tucked two fingers beneath Bucky's chin to lift his face. “Kinda need you here with me, Buck, 'stead of checking out on me. I know it's hard, putting yourself in my hands after the way people have hurt you, but we're gonna go slow, okay?

“'M gonna take such good care of you. But I need you to let go. Let me teach you. This body isn't a sin, Buck. This flesh wasn't made wrong.” He skimmed a palm over Bucky's chest, down the man's abdomen, and cupped his genitals. “This is your body. This is the body I love.”

Bucky took a deep breath to relax his tension and nodded.

“You gonna be my baby boy? Let me show you how to love the way you were made?”

Again, Bucky nodded.

Finally, Steve positioned Bucky between a pair of free-standing poles. He didn't tie him into position, wanted the man capable of escape without asking to be released, so he wound a pair of tethers around Bucky's wrists and fed the ends into his submissive's grasp so he could have control over his own restraints. That way, all he needed to do in order to get free was release his grip.

He stepped back to admire having Bucky at his mercy, having him offered up like Ann Darrow to King Kong. It would be beauty what tamed the beast, and Bucky was beautiful. From his broad shoulders right down to the muscle cording his thighs and calves.

Padding over to a shelf allowed him to select a soft mask, and his submissive's quick inhale let him know he was on the right track. “You like being blind-folded, don't you.”

Bucky licked his lips and nodded.

“Helps you block out the jumble and focus on sensations.”

Another quick nod followed.

After fitting the mask over Bucky's eyes, Steve prowled across the room to select a paddle, ignoring the intricate wooden ones filled with lace-like holes that would create patterns of color on a submissive's flesh. Rather, he chose a leather instrument blunted with plenty of padding. It was garish red, and the handle fit comfortably in his grip.

“Steve?” Bucky asked, voice threaded with uncertainty.

“I'm here, Jelly Belly.”

“Don't go too far away. I need you near me.”

Steve couldn't stop the warmth that flooded into him over Bucky expressing a need. “There's my good boy. Learning how to express what he needs. 'M so proud of you.”

With soft fingers, he traced the length of Bucky's spine, mesmerized by the flow of muscle and velvet skin guiding him down, down, down until his sub's flesh flared into a muscled buttocks. There, Steve spread fingers across the mound and dug into the firm flesh, causing his sub to gasp. No warning accompanied a light slap as Steve delighted in the soft bounce of his ex-husband's fleshy backside.

He pressed his lips just beneath Bucky's ear. “You turned me into an ass man,” he murmured. “Just looking at yours makes me want to sink my teeth into one of these gorgeous cheeks. I love taking you from behind, watching your ass jiggle while I drive into you.”

A gasp and a soft groan followed Bucky's head dropping back against Steve's shoulder.

“This is a leather paddle,” warned Steve.

Moments later, he caressed the length of the paddle down Bucky's spine and over the curve of his ass, allowed his submissive to feel the texture and acclimate to the firmness long before he tapped the other man's ass with enough heat to make his intentions clear but not cause real pain. The second tap came a little harder, and Bucky didn't arch away from it.

“Talk to me,” Bucky said after licking his lips. “I wanna hear your voice.”

“Lesson one: Our bodies are our own. This is your body.” He punctuated the statement by caressing an open palm over Bucky's naked hip. “God gave you dominion over your body. He gave you free will. Gaining pleasure with your body is using it or the purpose for which it was created.”

The next slap was hard enough to make Bucky jerk forward against his restraints and caused a sliver of sound to emanate from his ex-husband's throat. Long fingers curled around the tethers to adjust his grip, and he widened his stance in clear invitation.

“If God designed everything with a purpose then he also designed our capacity to draw pleasure from each other. He built us with the capacity to share pleasure, the capacity to feel love and commit ourselves to one another.”

“What if it's just to tempt us, though? Like when we're at a bakery and see a delicious slab of cake. We know the cake's bad for us, but we're gonna eat it anyway.”

Steve nearly lost the plot upon realizing just how deeply the Barnses and Dr. Sofen had indoctrinated Bucky into the idea that good things were wrong. It stunned him to suddenly realize how much of Bucky's life had been a struggle when it came to accepting pleasant things.

“But Jelly Belly, cake isn't a sin.”

Stunned silence followed that revolutionary bit of advice.

“Say it, baby boy.”

“Cake isn't a sin,” repeated Bucky.

Steve cracked the paddle against Bucky's flesh again, a blush of pink just beginning to stain the man's pale buttocks. Bucky bit into the plush softness of his own bottom lip.

“Say it.”

“Cake isn't a sin.”

“Again.”

“Cake isn't a sin.” Every time he said it, Bucky's voice strengthened with greater certainty.

“Let it go. Breathe and let it go.”

Tension rushed from Bucky's body, bleeding into the floor. “Cake isn't a sin.”

After, Steve delivered four stinging slaps, pausing between each to allow pain to bloom across Bucky's nerve endings. The man's ass was cherry red and warm when Steve contrasted the sharpness of the paddle with the softness of his own palm in a gentling caress that had Bucky leaning into him.

Circling around to the other man's front allowed him to trace thumbs across flat nipples, nipples that woke the longer he touched them. Bucky stirred. He stirred and arched to press into the touch with a trembling bottom lip and muscles shaking with controlled tension.

“Gonna put clamps on your nipples, Jelly Belly. That okay? It might hurt a little, but when I remove them, the blood will rush back to the area and make you ten times more sensitive.”

Bucky nodded.

Steve retrieved a pair, the tips coated in soft rubber, and closed one over each nipple. His sub whimpered, a breathy little sound that went straight to Steve's dick, but then, every response he managed to wring from Bucky Barnes seemed to have that affect.

Once he had Buck positioned to his liking, he selected a riding crop from a drawer and grazed the leather tab along his sub's abdomen. “This is a riding crop. Can you feel the texture of the leather?”

His submissive nodded. “Please, don't hurt me with it, Sir.”

“Oh Jelly Belly, no.” Steve immediately moved closer and pressed their bodies together to offer comfort. “This is just like the paddle. We're gonna warm your muscles up. Bring heat to the surface of your skin. Get your blood flowing to your nerve endings. Did the paddle hurt?”

“No. Just stung a little. Startled me. Then I felt warm and good.”

“This is the same thing. Once the heat comes, you might feel a little raw, but pleasure will be right behind it. 'M never gonna engage in pain play with you unless we negotiate before hand, okay? 'M never gonna mark up this body unless you want me to.”

“I'm scared,” Bucky admitted, and he sounded wrecked, uncertain and overwhelmed.

“'S'okay to be scared, Jelly Belly. You remember our safe word, right?”

“Red.”

“Good. That's it, baby boy. You feel like it's too much, you just say red. Whatever we're doing stops and I hold you until you feel safe and calm again. 'M never gonna be mad at you for using your words or needing me to stop or slow down.”

Finally, Bucky released a breath. “Go ahead. I consent.”

Steve started by tapping the leather tab against the clamps on Bucky's nipples and watched the man arch away from the touch. Like a skittish colt the first time donning a bridle. The second tap pulled a sharp gasp from his submissive, and the more Buck settled into the sensations, the freer his responses became, but Steve wasn't nearly done with him yet.

Leather snaked a path between his sub's pecs, drawing a line down the center of his body before dragging over his genitals. Bucky stiffened. Steve tapped the crop over the other man's cock and balls, watched with fascination as the flesh bounced, as it thickened between Bucky's thighs.

He worked slowly, always careful to allow his submissive to feel the path of the crop. He caressed nude flesh. He occasionally snapped the crop against thick muscle to bring color to the surface, but he never caused real pain, and with each successive blow, Bucky learned to sag into his restraints.

So when Steve glanced up and realized tears streamed from beneath the blindfold, he damn near had a panic attack and said, “Talk to me, Buck. What's your color?”

“Green,” Bucky said, a spacy, loose quality to his voice.

“You're crying.” Steve caught a tear with his thumb and sucked the salt from his own finger.

“Cake isn't a sin.”

“That's right, baby boy. The people who told you otherwise had agendas. They wanted to keep you repressed. They wanted you willing clay to mold.”

Grabbing a bottle of baby oil, he warmed some in his palms and went back over the skin he'd heated to soothe nerve endings that had become drunk with blood. Bucky gasped. He gasped and arched into the touch, coming up on his toes in an effort to get closer, to press harder, and finally, Steve released the clamps from his nipples before pulling one into the heat of his mouth.

Bucky damn near wailed. “Don't stop. Fuck, don't stop!”

He turned his attention to Buck's other nipple to pull it between his teeth. At the same time, he closed a fist around his lover's cock to stroke him a few times. Enough so that the flesh became blood-hot and arched toward the other man's belly.

“Feels amazing that you trust me with this,” Steve said.

“Wouldn't trust anyone else.”

“You've been such a good boy. Do you wanna come?”

Bucky shook his head. “Don't want to come right away.”

“Want me to edge you?”

“Yeah.” Bucky's voice was thready, a wisp of wind through a bamboo forest.

Several lengths of raspberry-colored rope awaited a moment just like this. Steve retrieved the coils and said, “'M gonna restrain you a bit better, okay? Same rules apply. You want to stop, you use your color words. Doesn't mean we stop the whole scene. Just means we do something different.”

He waited for Bucky's approval before winding rope around the man's ankle and the free-standing pole. Raspberry hemp created three loops before moving up to create three additional coils around Buck's knees. The vibrant color stood out in stark contrast against milky skin that spent too much time in jeans, the colors and texture a canvas on which Steve created art.

When both legs were tied to the poles, the result was obvious; Bucky couldn't close his legs or pull too far one way or the other while he strained for orgasm. But Steve left his hands in their original tethers to give the illusion of being completely confined.

After, he stood back to admire his work. He wanted so much to photograph Bucky like he was, completely vulnerable, open, and accepting but wouldn't without discussing it first. Decisions that would leave a permanent record of their play shouldn't be made in a maelstrom of endorphins.

He finally grabbed a butt plug and removed it from its original packaging. He approached on quiet steps and grazed the silicone against Bucky's skin.

“Is it all right if I use a plug in you?”

“Yeah.”

Steve coated the plug with lube before smoothing his fingers between Bucky's cheeks, thumb finding and circling the tight pucker awaiting him. Bucky's breath hitched, and he allowed Steve to massage him, to gentle him through the nerves until Steve's thumb eased inside.

“That's it. Relax for me. There's no shame letting me inside your body like this, baby boy. Doesn't matter what they tried to teach you. This is your asshole. You have complete ownership over what goes inside it. This is your prostate.” He punctuated the statement by pressing his thumb into the bundle of nerves he found, causing his sub to arch like a live wire.

“Only you get to decide who plays with your prostate. Not your parents. Not Dr. Sofen. Not pastors whose sole agenda it is to keep you buying forgiveness with your tithes and offerings.”

“You think that's what they were doing?”

“Those pastors with their mega-churches gotta buy their jets and fancy cars somehow.”

He wasn't expecting the comment to startle a laugh out of Bucky. “Yeah, Dad was always talking about taking his ministry to the national stage. Get some of that sweet, sweet tithe money to buy a jet.”

“You don't have to worry about him anymore. I'm your daddy now. Err--”

Bucky giggled.

“You know what I mean.”

“You wanna be my daddy, Stevie? Teach me how to be your good boy?”

“My thumb is up your ass, and you're laughing instead of crying. I'd say that's mission accomplished.”

Just to remind Bucky of his precarious position, Steve exchanged his thumb with two fingers and curled them to rub against the man's prostate again, pulling a gasp from his sub and resulting in that shapely ass pushing toward him to beg for more. And fuck, being surrounded by the tight heat of his lover's body damn near tested his control. He wanted to sink his cock into the tight clutch of muscles.

He removed his fingers, grinned like an idiot when Bucky whimpered at the loss, and quickly replaced his digits with the tip of the plug. Bucky's hole stretched around the widest part only to close around the narrower stem. A wide fan nestled into the man's crack to prevent the plug from sinking deeper.

Grinning, Steve leaned into his submissive to press their bodies together for grounding. An arm snaked around the other man's waist. He coupled the caress by smacking an open palm against a fleshy cheek, and Bucky's yelp bled into a moan. He smacked again. And a third time, until the crack of palm against flesh filled the playroom like a thunderclap.

“Stevie,” Bucky croaked. “Please. Fuck, please.”

He circled his palm around the man's erection and pushed his chest against Bucky's back to surround the man with warmth and familiar scent, with grounding contact. He jacked his sub's shaft and used the other hand to manipulate the plug in search of his lover's prostate. He knew the moment he found it by the way Bucky quaked in his hold.

Then, mouth grazing his lover's neck, he established a rhythm that soon had pre-come dribbling from Bucky's cockhead. He traced the thick veins and rubbed a thumb into the slit, reveled in the silken texture and the way Bucky had to restrain himself from fucking into Steve's fist.

“I got you, Jelly Belly. Let yourself feel. Fuck, you're so beautiful. I want you so much.”

He knew the moment his sub surrendered. That surrender left Steve feeling like he was on top of the world, like he could scream a challenge to the heavens, dare anyone to rip Bucky and he asunder.

“Steve.” Bucky's head thrashed back and forth against Steve's shoulder. “Stevie. Gonna come.”

He let go of Bucky's cock and stepped back to separate their bodies.

Bucky howled.


	13. Post Break-Up Sex That Helps You Forget Your Ex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head. Not that head. Yeesh. Get your minds out of the gutter. You'd think this fic was about sexual healing or something. :D

Bucky howled.

Orgasm was right there. His balls tightened. Sensation zinged up his spinal cord. He stood upon the edge of a precipice. One gust of wind against over-stimulated skin was all it would take to topple.

Then nothing.

Steve's touch left him suspended and in limbo.

And Bucky howled.

“Breathe, Jelly Belly,” rasped Steve. “You gotta slow your breathing down or you're gonna faint.”

Obeying required a concentrated effort; it helped when his dominant's hand settled over his heart to offer grounding. Allowed him to measure his breaths into an even rhythm.

Obedience was getting easier. Each small exchange between them built an extra layer of trust, which was why, when Steve suggested a vibrating cock ring, Bucky didn't hesitate to agree. He knew his dom would ultimately see to his satisfaction. He surrendered to the idea that Steve knew what was best.

He almost changed his mind once the silicone clutched his straining erection and the vibrations shivered into his nerve endings. It felt fucking fantastic, but that was the problem. Everything felt fantastic, and eventually, his nerve endings would become drunk on pleasure.

Vibrations traveled down the length of his erection toward his balls, and he realized Steve was moving the ring up and down his shaft. When it settled near his balls, fingers of ecstasy shivered through his loins. He moaned. He tried to fuck himself into the tight ring but wound up humping air.

In a needy voice, he cried out, “Steve!”

“I got you, Jelly Belly.”

Steve's palm smoothed up Bucky's abs to his chest where they pinched at the sensitive nubs of his nipples, still engorged from blood flow caused by the clamps. Heat. Heat speared through him, and it felt like his nipples had a direct connection to his cock, as a bead of moisture dribbled down his shaft.

“Fuck, Stevie, I can't. I fucking can't.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I fucking can't. I need to--”

All he could hear were the vibrations of the cock ring and a rustle of clothing. Next thing he knew, Steve's bare chest pressed against him. The touch, the warmth, Steve's scent cocooning him banked the rising panic into something more manageable, allowed him to settle back into a receptive state of mind.

Then, his dom went back to playing with the cock ring, sliding it closer to his balls so vibrations drilled into his testicles in a flare of sensation. Slowly, Steve inched it back toward the glans where he pressed it harder against the over-sensitive frenulum, and Bucky thought he was dying. He fucked desperately against the air in an effort to push himself over the edge.

It was right there.

He could taste musk coloring the air in advance of his own release. His balls tightened. His teeth ached. His cock felt like it was afire with need.

Steve yanked the cock ring off and stepped back.

Bucky howled again. He howled and writhed against his restraints.

“Fucking shit!” It came out somewhere between a snarl and a sob.

“Do you need to code word, baby boy?”

He couldn't concentrate past the hedonistic whirl of sensation Steve had built inside his body. There was too much white noise inside. Verbal communication was the last thing on his mind.

“Buck, this is important. Do you need to use your code word?”

Code word. He cast around looking for the meaning and remembered it was the word he was supposed to use to signal things were getting too intense and he needed to orgasm as quickly as possible. To his credit, he did take a few moments to see what his body felt like.

“No, feels really good. Just not used to being denied.”

“You let me know the second that changes.”

He nodded.

So his torment started again. Steve pressed something against the underside of his cock that was suddenly pulsing, filling the silence with the loud thrum of what he thought was a Magic Wand. Intense vibrations shuddered through his cock, and he clawed at the tethers clutched in his own hands when his dom pressed Bucky's cockhead against the vibrating tip.

Pleasure zinged up his spine. He came up on tip-toe out of a desperate need to escape the intensity swamping him. But at the same time, he craved more. Wanted to get closer. Could smell the thick, heady aroma of sex as pre-come oozed from his slit to pool on the floor at his feet.

Next thing he knew, the wand pressed against his taint where it did stunning things to the butt plug filling him, sending pulses straight into his sensitive prostate. He squirmed. Tension crackled through his loins. He rolled his hips in a desperate bid to get more, to press close enough, to rock hard enough, anything it took to finally crest the orgasm. 

He hovered on the brink again only to be denied when Steve removed the wand and stepped back out of touching distance. Another wail escaped him. Moisture dribbled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin, his face becoming damp with frustrated tears.

Buzzing sounded nearby. He jerked his head in that direction in an attempt to anticipate what came next. A cap snapped open and then closed. Probably lube. Rich carpet muffled padded footfalls as Steve returned. Next thing Bucky knew, some sort of silicone sleeve melted around his cock. Another sound preceded the wand starting up again. Vibrations danced through his loins, and this time, he was able to fuck himself into the sleeve to chase what hovered just out of reach.

Seconds away from orgasm, Steve removed the sleeve and left him dangling again. He screamed. His throat was raw from screaming, but he did anyway and heaved against his restraints. The poles rattled dangerously from his exertions.

“Please, Stevie. Fuck me and let me come.” He felt no shame in having been reduced to babbling.

Bucky felt a hand flatten over his hip to allow them to remain in contact, something he appreciated when his lover moved around behind him again. A belt buckle opened. Cloth rustled again. Then, he felt the heavy weight of Steve's erection straining against the small of his back, and Bucky attempted to rock himself against his lover's cock to feel the silk and steel of Steve's penis.

The crinkle of a foil packet sounded. He reared backward, allowing his back to bow as he offered his ass toward the man who'd just spent two hours taking him apart. Another cap popped open. He imagined one of Steve's hands slicking across his own cock to make himself nice and wet for Bucky.

Next thing he knew, Steve eased the plug from his passage and replaced it with the blunted head of his cock. It eased into his body, and Bucky's muscles gave to the onslaught. He melted around the pleasurable invasion, sighed with relief at finally having that empty place inside him filled.

Broad palms closed around his hips. Steve's breath warmed the back of his neck. A shiver raced up Bucky's spine, and he felt at once vulnerable and completely protected with his lover's face buried between his shoulder blades where teeth scraped his flesh.

They were silent. Steve was tender, his hips pulsing gently only to build until Bucky's senses were filled with the soft slap of flesh and the harsh breaths driven from their lungs as they worked in harmony toward their mutual pleasure. The wet sound of Steve filling him and pulling out. The way Bucky's straining erection slapped softly against his own belly with each forward thrust.

Nothing else penetrated the cocoon Steve had built for him. He was left with no recourse but to feel, to experience, to become drunk on the atmosphere. Because he was utterly safe. Steve knew what was best for him and would make sure he achieved that.

Moments later, it was there, blinding and hot. Orgasm stormed through him. His cock swung heavily between his legs, and fuck, he had never experienced an orgasm without having his dick stroked before. But the repeated stimulation of Steve pressing into his prostate lit up his insides with intensity.

He shrieked around his bottom lip. His orgasm was so strong his left leg quaked and his head hanged between his shoulders. It didn't stop. It kept firing through him as Steve's cockhead, blood-hot and hard, continued its onslaught against Bucky's prostate.

Bucky flew out of his own head into the utter stillness of sub-space where nothing mattered but the man behind him and the freedom to exist in the moment.

Moments later, Steve stiffened. Just a few more uncoordinated thrusts, and the man's cock throbbed inside Bucky as he filled the condom.

Bucky sagged. They trembled together. Their bodies shivered with want of each other. It was all they could do to stand and breathe let alone separate and make it the ten odd steps toward the waiting bed.

When Steve finally did stir, the man eased out of Bucky, disposed of the condom, and went to unleash the bindings restraining him to the posts.

Bucky sagged into the man's waiting arms. Were it not for Steve's wiry strength, he was sure he would have crumpled to the floor, that was how badly his muscles quaked. Between the two of them, though, they managed the short trip, and Bucky collapsed as soon as they were within reach of the mattress.

Only then did Steve remove the blindfold.

Light rushed into his vision, causing him to wince and turn away. He pressed into Steve's chest in an effort to hide but also to breathe in the post-orgasmic musk mingling between them. His senses were filled with Steve. From Steve's cologne to the subtle nuance of his shampoo.

“You're safe, Jelly Belly. We're gonna rest for a few minutes. Then I'll get us some water and a warm washcloth so we can clean up. Then we're gonna lie here for a while so I can hold my baby boy.”

Everything was great until dark thoughts tried to back-fill his reawakening senses. Shame. Uncertainty. Filth and unholiness. Dr. Sofen's disappointed expression. His mom's desperation. His dad's shame, so he reached for Jericho's techniques in an attempt to head them off.

He felt the way he felt because it had been beaten and tortured into him. They weren't his thoughts; they were those of his parents and his pastors, of Dr. Sofen. So he allowed the beast to come once more with its red skin and dreadful horns. With its thick hide and a pulpit clutched in one hand, a pack of needles in the other. 

The needles and the pulpit weren't for him. They couldn't hurt him anymore. The horns were for Dr. Sofen, and he could choose whether or not to listen to indoctrination. The red skin was for his mother's shame, and he had no fucking control over what she felt and didn't owe her a goddamn thing. The thick hide was for his father, who had kicked his son out of the house rather than accept that Bucky was gay.

As he went through each feature and rationalized its existence, said feature disappeared. Eventually, all that was left was a stooped old man shivering in the cold. And there was nothing frightening about a stooped old man shivering in the cold.

He could do whatever he wanted with his body. They may have given him life, but they didn't own him. He was free and could choose to retake his own agency. He could choose. Because he was a fucking adult, and if they couldn't accept him for everything he was, they didn't deserve him.

A bark of laughter escaped.

Steve came up on an elbow and looked down at him.

Overwhelmed and emotionally exhausted, Bucky laughed again. He reached up and traced the outline of his lover's cheek. Maybe it was the release of tension. Maybe it was finally achieving victory over that which had haunted him for so long. Whatever the reason, once he started laughing, he couldn't stop. He wound up laughing until his stomach was sore.

And it felt so fucking good. So fucking freeing. He never wanted the tears and laughter or end. “He left. That fucker who's been haunting me since my childhood left. I told him to go the fuck away, and he fucking left.”

Steve's brow knit with confusion. “Jelly Belly, I'm not changing your nickname to Gollum.”

The quip prompted more laughter, and once it eased, Bucky kicked his feet against the mattress and cried, “Cake isn't a fucking sin!”

XXXXX

“Come back to bed, lover,” Wanda murmured against the back of Clint's bare shoulder.

He shuffled a few papers around on the coffee table, tucking a contract beneath piles of print-outs on Alexander Pierce. The contract was for permanent employment in Eden's landscaping department. He'd be taking a pay cut, but room and board on the island was included in his benefits package. Sort of made up for losing out on the extra hazard pay generated from chasing bad guys with guns.

Smiling, he turned and brushed kiss-bruised lips against hers, their mouths still tender from an earlier round of sex. Sweat cooled along his denuded flesh, and there was the real wonder, the way he could lounge around his living room without a stitch of clothes on and not worry about what she would think of all his transition scars. He didn't need to cover up. Or stay hidden.

“Just a sec. Why don't you put on some coffee for us while I finish up?”

She hummed against his mouth and padded across the open concept floor pan into the kitchen.

Which meant he needed to drag his attention away from the sultry sway of her voluptuous hips. Meant he had a hard time going back to something as dry and boring as the background check on Alexander Pierce. The guy was dull in comparison.

Pierce was a billionaire several times over and the CEO of Pierce Holdings. On the surface, his company was a security consultation firm but had recently branched out to dabble in politics. Pierce headed up a lobbyist group known as Hydra whose sole interest was to increase military spending, dollars that would be funneled into an early warning system called Project Insight.

Nothing stood out that screamed “underworld mob boss.” He was a rich white guy with a clean service record who consistently voted Republican. Clint found that incredibly rich considering the guy was spending vacation time in a sex island. Repressed Republicans and their sexual skeletons.

Trouble was, he couldn't find any direct links to Black Cat, who they now knew was born Felicia Hardy. According to facial recognition software. That wasn't to say there were no links there. He just hadn't found them yet. “Father,” had eluded them for a reason, and Pierce was just the sort of brilliant to pull off keeping his alter ego hidden.

So that left them stuck at square one. It meant their only lead connecting Pierce to “Father” was the man personally asking for Barnes to attend him. Certainly, that wasn't enough to arrest him let alone prosecute him; it could be a massive coincidence.

Clint shoved the papers away in frustration. He padded across the room and wrapped both arms around Wanda's waist where she stood at the counter mixing sugar into a cup of coffee.

“Finished with your work?”

He hummed against the back of her neck.

“My body craves you.”

“Again? You're insatiable, Wanda!” Laughter threaded his statement.

“There is something wrong with knowing my desires and satisfying them?”

“Nothing at all.”

He sank onto his knees behind her and clenched teeth into the fleshy curve of her ass.

She moaned and pressed back toward him.

He moved to stand only to be stopped by her fingernails scraping against his scalp.

“Finish what you start, Brian.”

Dismay made him flinch upon hearing that name come from her mouth. He meant to tell her. Every day, he meant to tell her. Each time he tried, words lodged behind his teeth at the last second. Would she be furious with him? Would she understand that his cover identity wasn't the real Clint Barton? Or would she believe he'd been lying to her the whole time?

Selfishly, he pushed such thoughts aside in favor of spreading her buttocks to expose her to him. His tongue darted between her cheeks to lave against her asshole, and she arched, legs spreading to grant him better access. Rimming was something he'd only ever done with men, but her subtle movements prompted him to continue.

The tip of his tongue eased into the tight furl while a hand slipped between her legs to cup her vagina. She rocked back and forth to shift pressure between her clit and her anus. Her russet hair snaked around them like a veil.

Soon, the pucker relaxed enough for him to catch his tongue around the rim.

“Do you want me there?” she asked. “To be inside of me there?”

“I want whatever is gonna feel good for you.”

“Take me to bed.”

His grin could have eclipsed the light of the sun. Together, they climbed the ladder into his loft, and he lowered her onto the bed on her stomach. She pressed her rear toward him. He couldn't resist the tempting delicacy and buried his face between her cheeks again to spear his tongue into the tight heat hidden between them.

One of her hands slid beneath her belly to cup the soft mound of her sex, and she rocked into the heel of said hand to grind herself there and relieve the ache in her loins, and when he felt her body relax, he lubed up the cock sleeve and snugged into a place. A condom followed afterward. More lube eased her tight passage when he pressed into the clutch of her body.

A soft moan escaped her. She tensed only to relax. She bowed her back, knees spread wide and the delicate curve of her spine called to him. One hand settled there in the dip just above the swell of her buttocks. She liked his hand there. Let him know by clasping his wrist and preventing him from moving it while she rocked back against him.

The heat. The tight squeeze. The way her muscles melted around him. She was an inferno and he a man lost in a blizzard in desperate need for warmth.

Clint couldn't catch his breath. His head arched back. Every nerve ending in his body crawled into his cock to weep with the joy of being so close to Wanda.

Then, a soft hum.

He glanced down to find her inserting a small vibrator into her sex. The pulsing vibrations rocked through her loins and straight into his cock, and Clint howled. Well, he hoped it wasn't a literal howl, but he couldn't be certain considering his brains were leaking out through his dick.

“Wanda,” he whimpered. “Fuck, baby, I'm gonna...”

Instead of slowing down, she turned up the vibrator and rolled her hips faster. It was all he could do to hang onto her hips, to surge forward to meet her backward movements, to swim amidst the hedonistic pleasure crawling up his spine as the sounds of their bodies slapping together filled his senses.

Tension snapped. The orgasm was like a bullet, sharp and intense and made all the better by the tremble of her muscles as she contracted around him. Their wild cries eased in the wake of their pleasure, and Clint slipped from her as gently as possible in order to collapse at her side.

He chuckled. Mirth built into rolling laughter that prompted him to wind an arm around his stomach.

“You find me funny?” she demanded, a sharp edge to her features.

“No. God no. Well. Yes.”

She arched a brow.

“You have a great sense of humor, but I'm not laughing at you. I just never imagined I'd find myself here, on a sex island, in bed with the most beautiful woman in the world.” He rolled onto his side to better face her. “And I'm happy. You make me so, so happy, and there's something I have to tell you.”

Rolling onto her own side allowed her to wind a leg around his waist, using it as an anchor to pull him closer. “Then tell me, my lover.”

Now that the moment had arrived, he had a hard time pushing the words past his lips. There was a dam preventing the words from spilling out, the awful uncertainty that Wanda wouldn't be able to accept Clint Barton despite having accepted Brian. Maybe it was a silly thought; he'd been known to have his fair share of those, but he was a loner for a reason.

Work-reddened fingers traced the outline of his face. “My lover, have I not proven that I am in love with this above all things?” Her palm moved down to settle over the gentle curve of his pectoral muscle, cupping the strong beat of his heart.

“My name isn't Brian.”

A beat of silence passed.

“My name's Clint Barton. I'm a detective with the NYPD and was sent here under cover following a lead on an open investigation. I can't tell you about the investigation, but it involves witness protection. Lying to you's been the hardest thing I ever done.”

She was quiet, a pensive look on her face.

“Say something.”

The front door banged open. Tim shouted, “Büstenhalter, some old bat just drove an NEV through the hedges. Get your ass down here. Or did you forget you work here?”

Groaning, he dropped his forearm across his face. “Sorry. That man doesn't know nothing about knocking. Or privacy. Or speaking below a certain decibel.”

“Go to work, Clint. We'll talk later.”

When he left, she didn't seem angry. She looked contemplative and lazy, her body sprawled across his blanket in a loose, sexy manner. The possibility that she might accept his explanation so easily, like water flowing into a new run-off, seemed too good to be true.

But he wasn't able to return right away to finish their conversation. By the time he was done with the hedge catastrophe, it was time for Nat to come off Barnes-watching duty and him to relieve her. He was there, a cup of coffee in hand, while Barnes wandered around the island taking pictures. He was there when Alexander Pierce approached Barnes on a bluff overlooking the ocean.

Before he could move to intercept the man, alarm bells going off between Clint's ears, someone clobbered him in the head. Stars blossomed behind his eyes. He crumpled to the ground, coffee staining his white t-shirt as the world went black around him.

XXXXX

Bucky broke the first rule of spec ops training: Never lose sight of your surroundings. Really, he couldn't help it. Remembering last night, the way Steve had touched him, the way they'd been closer than they ever had, brought a giddy smile to his countenance. He couldn't stop smiling.

Between that and the ear buds through which Lana Del Rey crooned, he wasn't paying a lick of attention to his environment. Rather, he lifted the Leica into position to nab a photograph of two seagulls diving into the waves for their lunch. Every photo he'd taken that day was a representation of the inner peace he'd settled into after surrendering to Steve.

He turned to make his way back across the finger of land stretching toward the ocean, a narrow ridge of rock and scrub grass serving as his only means back toward the resort. He froze. Alarm skittered through his nerve endings. The peace of earlier shattered.

Alexander Pierce stood between Bucky and freedom.

Had Bucky been faster, he may have dodged around the man. Had he been paying attention to his surroundings, he never would have allowed himself to be placed in such a bad position. But he wasn't faster, and he hadn't been aware, and taking in Alexander Pierce's stocky build made him hyper-aware of the weakness of his left arm should a fight become necessary.

Alex shifted.

Alarm blared between his ears. The man had a hand tucked behind his back. He couldn't see both Alexander's hands. There was a gun. Surely, he gripped a gun in his hidden hand.

“You're a hard man to find, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn't respond. Muscle memory had him poised on the balls of his feet in preparation for fight or flight. Neither was a good option: Unarmed, cut off, very little room to move.

Pierce's eyes lingered on Bucky's body. He said, “I have something for you,” and stepped closer.

“Whoa!” Bucky scrambled back, keenly aware that his heel nudged the edge of the bluff. He raised a palm to ward off the other man. “That's close enough. You stay right there.”

Pierce's broad shoulders slumped. “You don't remember.”

He could barely hear his assailant over the pounding of his heart and the rush of blood in his ears. All he knew was that Alexander adjusted his grip on whatever was hidden behind his back. Bucky imagined gun-metal gray. He imagined sunlight glinting off the barrel of a gun. He imagined Steve finding his body on the bluff hours later.

“December sixteen, two thousand and eight,” Pierce said.

A crush of memories flooded him, a jumble of images from countless missions bleeding into one long montage of violence and war. He'd been working Spec Ops by then and had been sent around the world on various missions, either to rescue important dignitaries or apprehend high-level terrorists.

It came to him a moment later. “The USS Juan Carlos.”

Alexander nodded.

“Somali pirates boarded the ship and took the crew hostage.”

Again, Pierce nodded.

“Four hostages had already been executed to put pressure on the US government to provide ransom. Any attempt to infiltrate would have resulted in the immediate execution of the rest of the hostages. I headed up the Howling Commandos, who engaged in a successful night landing aboard the ship.”

He was quiet for a moment, lost in the memory. Two Howlies had died on that mission, Izzy Cohen and James Falsworth. Fighting had been brutal with close-quarters conditions and each soldier hyper-aware that vulnerable hostages could be killed at any moment.

Bucky had gotten to the bridge just in time to find the pirate leader holding a gun to a US Airman's head. One impossible shot had saved the airman's life, but it came at the cost of Bucky's own arm. Another pirate had attacked. Instead of defending himself, he'd taken the shot to save the airman.

Pierce had been a decade younger and considerably fitter, but the eyes were the same washed out shade of blue. The fear in First Lieutenant Pierce's eyes had stayed with Bucky for weeks afterward.

“You were there.”

“You saved my life, Sergeant Barnes. I wouldn't be standing here if it weren't for your intervention.”

Tension suddenly melted away, though he continued eying the hand tucked behind Pierce's back. “Small fucking world. What are the odds meeting you here on this island?”

“Not entirely without effort on my part. I've been looking for you for some time, but sealed military records aren't entirely easy to gain access to. Mr. Buchanan gave it away. I remember hearing your superiors refer to you as Mr. Buchanan at one point while exfiltrating the aircraft carrier.

“When that name popped up belonging to an employee of Eden, I had to come. You must understand that what you did for me... I never got to thank you. Not really.”

“Just doing my job.”

“No, you weren't. I could have been another casualty, an acceptable loss in a mission that had been projected to have a low rate of success. But I wasn't. Thank you, Sergeant Barnes. For your service. And your sacrifice.” He indicated Buck's left arm.

“Hang on a sec. Are you the one who's been sending me expensive gifts?”

Pierce nodded. “Small tokens of my gratitude. I remember you playing guitar aboard the Juan Carlos and wondering just how the Hell you managed to be so talented with a bandage on your arm.”

“Morphine. Lots of morphine.”

They shared a brief laugh.

Even despite the easing of tension, Bucky still attempted to ward off an impending attack when Pierce finally moved his hidden arm. His fears proved false. The man held nothing more sinister than a box, one Bucky accepted with a slight tremble of his hand.

“You don't have to keep doing this.”

“The world has been good to me following my military career. I made a name for myself. These gifts are a drop in the bucket compared to what your sacrifice allowed for me to achieve. I'm not asking anything from you. Just that you allow me to somehow repay my debt, to erase the red in my ledger.”

Bucky opened the box. It contained a set of keys and a photo depicting a Jaguar F-Type. “Jesus jumped up Christ. This is too much, Mr. Pierce. I can't accept this.”

“It's already done. You can pick it up at the dealership in Indianapolis.”

Strange emotions threaded his chest. It wasn't so much that he felt a sense of closure when it came to how his military career had ended. More apt would be to say a piece of himself clicked into place, one he hadn't really known had been out of alignment. To finally meet the man who'd been saved by his own bodily sacrifice helped him to remember why he'd enlisted to begin with.

Finally, he extended his hand. Alex's palm was warm, his grip strong, when they shook.

“It's a shame,” Alex began, “that Captain refuses to allow you to entertain dominants. The things I would do to you if given half the chance.”

“Alas, I'm a one man kind of guy. Walk me back to the resort?”

They turned and strolled back the way Bucky had come. It was a pleasant walk. They didn't talk much. Their shared history wasn't the sort that fostered friendliness, but in an odd sort of way, they understood one another, two ex-military servicemen who'd been scarred by their experiences.

Alex parted company with him at the half-way point to return to the dominant side of the island while Bucky continued on toward Steve's bungalow where he'd been staying for the past few days. That giddy smile returned to his expression. Looked like things were heading up in Bucky Barnes' life.

He reached the outskirts of the resort when someone grabbed his bicep and pressed the muzzle of a gun into his ribs. Tension whipped him taut. He didn't dare breathe.

“You have something I want,” said a gruff voice in a thick, Italian accent.

And Bucky? He didn't have any real options but to obey the gun pressed into his side. All he could do was march in the direction his kidnapper prompted and hope no one attempted to intervene and got shot for their efforts. Which was why it sucked hardcore when he caught sight of Warren and Brock playing basketball at one of the staff courts.

Both men raised hands in greeting.

Ignoring them would have seemed uncharacteristically rude, so he raised his hand in return, cursing inwardly when the men abandoned their game to jog toward him. 

His kidnapper remained close, one hand gripping Bucky's bicep, and hissed, “There are enough bullets in this gun for them, too. Get rid of them.”

“President Buchanan!” exclaimed Warren. “Just the person we were looking for. Cyke says it's custom for the entire submissive side of the island to have a sort of field day. You know, games, food, music. Anyhow, we're putting a team together and want you to join up with Brock and me.”

He could only hope the strain didn't show in his smile. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

Brock shifted his weight and glanced back and forth between Bucky and his kidnapper. “You okay, Kid? This guy giving you any trouble?”

“No. Steve finally cleared me for active duty. This is my dominant.” Smiling, he made a concerted effort to ease the rigidity of his posture and smiled up at the Italian. “Ain't that right, Sweetheart.”

“Quite,” the man responded.

“We're on our way to a seminar, so I'll see you guys around. Don't do anything stupid 'til I get back.”

“How can we? You're taking all the stupid with you,” Warren retorted.

They let him go. Thank fuck. He only barely heard Brock ask Warren if Bucky was acting weird before his kidnapper redirected him toward a maintenance area.


	14. I Wanna Feel You From The Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things wrap up for Bucky Barnes and Clint Barton as their new families come together with their old families.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. The final chapter. I hope everyone has enjoyed my story. It was a chore to write at times and required a lot of post-editing work to whip it into shape, but I'm really happy with how it turned out. I always wanted to write a story about sexual discovery and healing. It's a cause that's very personal for me.
> 
> [Dreadnought](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreadnought) deserves all the praise for holding my hand through this, helping me with research, and being a general sounding board for my whacky self. Thanks so much for being awesome!
> 
> And thanks to everyone who's read, commented, and left kudos. Knowing people enjoy what I write is a huge motivator.

“Steve!”

Steve jerked attention back toward Pepper, unable to wipe the giddy smile from his face.

“Who are you, and what have you done with the real Steve Rogers?” she asked.

Laughter bubbled from his lungs. “Fair question.”

“This has something to do with your ex-husband and the fact he's been staying with you here in your private abode.” The secret smile she offered prompted heat to rise in his cheeks.

“We're gonna try again.”

“Which means...”

He couldn't hold it in any longer and released a dreamy sigh while sinking against the backrest of his chair. “Have you ever felt like you were floating? Like you could just walk through life without your feet touching the ground because the person you love still loves you back?”

That prompted Pepper to laugh. “I'm happy for you. Does this mean we're going to lose you?”

“No, I've no plans to leave. In fact, I was wondering if that position was still open. In the media department. For photography. Of course, I could always be his sugar daddy. Let him live here on the island with me while I provide for all his needs so he can spend his days making art.

“You should see Bucky's photography when he's not motivated by cash. It's nothing like what comes out of my art studio. The way he sees the world is--”

The door crashed open and banged against the wall.

Detective Romanoff rushed inside. “Is Barnes with you?”

Alarm flooded him. “Detective Barton's supposed to be watching him.”

“Detective Barton was just rushed into the infirmary unconscious,” she said.

Previous alarm exploded into outright fear, and he shot out of his chair. “Oh God, where's Bucky? Where's Alexander Pierce? We have to find him.”

Pepper, ever the pragmatist rolled to her feet and said, “We'll start by checking the security feeds. There are cameras all over this island filming communal spaces.”

Nausea roiled inside his stomach. He felt helpless. All he could do was trail after Pepper and Nat as they moved toward the security offices, a boat on the open ocean battered back and forth by storm waves. Endless scenarios played across the backs of his eyelids. Bucky could already be dead. What if the man he loved was dead? They hadn't had enough time together. They hadn't made enough memories. Pierce may have already murdered Bucky.

Which meant when he caught sight of Alexander Pierce strolling toward a garden, he was operating with zero chill and a heaping helping of rage. Detective Romanoff didn't catch him in time as he raced past, grabbing two fistfuls of the other man's shirt to haul Pierce closer.

“Where is he?”

Pierce, alarmed, attempted to backpedal. “Who?”

“Don't play dumb with me. What have you done with Bucky?”

“I don't know what you mean. Bucky and I parted ways some time ago.”

“You're lying!”

It took the combined efforts of Detective Romanoff and Pepper to prevent him from slugging Pierce right in the nose. Both women seized his arms and yanked him backward, kicking and spitting.

“You've been asking about getting in contact with him,” snarled Steve. “Now he's disappeared. What have you done? I swear to everything holy you'll rue the day you hurt him.”

Pierce lifted both hands away from his body. “Sergeant Barnes headed up the spec ops unit that liberated the USS Juan Carlos from Somali pirates. The only reason I wanted to get in contact with him was to offer my gratitude. I've done that. We were together not twenty minutes ago. What kind of person do you take me for, Mr. Rogers?”

Some tension bled out of Steve.

“We're wasting time,” Detective Romanoff said.

“I'll help you find him,” Pierce offered. “Whatever it takes.”

XXXXX

Knuckles dripping with gemstones connected with Bucky's mouth, turning his head to the side and causing teeth to gnash against tongue and cheek. Blood arched through the air. He couldn't swallow the grunt that escaped in time. Gathering a mouthful of blood, he spat it at the feet of his attackers.

“Fuck off,” he snapped.

They wanted the hard copy negatives. The only thing keeping him alive was his knowledge of their location. He cracked, and they wouldn't hesitate to end him. He'd seen their faces. No way did he make it out of this scenario alive. And just when it seemed he was getting his life under control, too.

As if that were ever a possibility. Not Bucky Barnes. His luck? They were gonna cut open his stomach, fill it full of stones, and drop him into the ocean as fish food. All before anyone even realized he was missing. Because that was the way the world worked when you were a Barnes.

“I have ways of making you talk,” Black Cat cooed. She threw a leg over his lap and shimmied down until perched on his knees. The clawed tip of finger armor adorning her hands scraped the barrier of his thin t-shirt. “Save yourself the pain. Tell me where the negatives are.”

Blood from a split lip dribbled down his chin. He smiled, pink staining white teeth. “You think you know about pain? Enroll your kid in aversion therapy. Then tell me about pain.”

Black Cat turned to glance toward the Italian. 

His hair was liberally streaked with gray, and he carried himself in a dignified manner, with the type of certainty that said he was used to getting his way by whatever means necessary. One of the rings adorning his fingers glowed an intense purple. Said glow leaked from the ring into the man's skin, highlighting a delicate network of veins into which the ionic energy seeped.

The stranger nodded.

Black Cat rose from his lap and uncovered a metal tray filled with cutting utensils from which she selected a pair of clippers. Then, rolling onto her knees, she unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. One yank, and the material pooled around his ankles to expose his most vulnerable flesh.

She snapped the clippers shut dangerously near his scrotum.

Bucky shouted. Torture was one thing. That was something entirely different. He panted to keep air in his lungs, squeezed his eyes closed, and attempted to control the frantic thunder of his heart as the cold metal caressed his sac. A wordless promise.

“Sergeant Barnes, James Buchanan. Three-two-five-five-seven-oh-three-eight,” he chanted.

“Save yourself the indignity, Sergeant Barnes,” she said.

“Sergeant Barnes, James Buchanan. Three-two-five-five-seven-oh-three-eight.”

“What are you resisting for? That nameless baggage claims tech didn't belong to you. He wasn't in your circle of friends. Why sacrifice such an innate part of yourself for his justice?”

“Sergeant Barnes, James Buchanan. Three-two-five-five--”

The clippers opened, their gleaming edge wicked in the low lighting. He sucked in rapid breaths. Felt himself hovering on the brink of hyperventilation. It made him lightheaded as anticipated agony crawled up his spine. He wanted to squeeze his eyes closed. The morbid sense of an impending crash propped his lids open. He couldn't look away. No matter how much he wanted to.

Metal snicked against metal.

Chaos broke out in the tiny room as the door crashed inward. Warren and Brock rushed inside, Brock intercepting Black Cat in mid-strike while Warren rushed the Italian. But there was something wrong. The Italian moved faster than a man should be able to move. He side-stepped Warren's blow. Returned one of his own that broke the blond's nose and had blood streaming down his face.

The fight was brutal in such close confines, Black Cat flowing like water to evade Brock while the Italian relied on brute strength to slam Warren against the wall. The man slid toward the floor. Bucky couldn't do anything but stare in horror. He rocked the chair from side to side to somehow draw the Italian's attention away from Warren to prevent him from finishing the job.

Things looked bad. Two unstoppable trains heading toward each other on the same track.

He blinked.

Detective Romanoff entered the room with gun drawn. She was followed by Alexander Pierce and Steve. Not Steve. Anyone but Steve. Steve couldn't be there. He couldn't be exposed to the kind of violence taking place inside the room. Steve shouldn't be touched by the badness in Bucky's life.

Steve rushed toward Bucky, hooked his arms beneath Bucky's, and dragged him, chair and all, from the central path of the fighting. “You're okay, Jelly Belly. I got you.” His ex kept murmuring the phrase while fighting with zip ties restraining Bucky's wrists to the armrests. 

As soon as he was free, Bucky grabbed Steve and pulled the man into a corner where they huddled, his body hunched over his lover, while the others subdued the enemy. Steve didn't appreciate being coddled, but Bucky didn't give one single fuck about that.

Once they were relatively safe, he craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Black Cat was the first to go down. Rumlow clocked her with a haymaker that sent her stumbling into a wall. Before she could regain her senses, he pressed his knee against her throat to keep her pinned to the floor.

The Italian took longer. He was stronger, better, faster than he should have been given his age, but Romanoff and Pierce eventually backed him into a corner. He still didn't go down without a fight, and it wasn't until Romanoff used a knife from Black Cat's tray of torture goodies to cut off the finger wearing the glowing ring that he succumbed to their combined efforts.

The man howled.

“Count Nefaria, you have the right remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law.” She unsnapped a Velcro pouch at her waist and cuffed Nefaria's hands behind his back. “You have the right to an attorney. If you can't afford an attorney, one will be provided.”

“How's that partner of yours?” he hissed.

Romanoff's expression froze. Calmly, she selected a heavy wrench from amidst the torture instruments and clocked Nefaria across the face hard enough he crumpled to the cold concrete. Crouching, she snaked fingers into his hair and hauled his head up. “Did anyone see that?”

A chorus of “Nopes” filled the room.

Slowly, Bucky uncurled himself from around Steve.

Rumlow sank onto his haunches, cupped Bucky's chin, and turned his face in both directions to inspect the various bruising coloring Bucky's pallor. “You okay, Kiddo?”

“Fuck,” it escaped Bucky, and he sank forward into Brock's waiting arms.

“Yeah. Good sentiments, Kid. Fuck.”

“Help Warren,” he muttered against the other man's neck. “He took a bad hit. Needs a doctor.”

“I'll take care of it. Sir, you take care of this kid, or so help me...”

Steve put a stop to the shovel speech with a raised hand and a warm palm against Bucky's back. “No need. I'd rather eat a hot coal.”

Pierce approached, holding out a hand to help Bucky to his feet, at which point, the airman gave him enough privacy to right his briefs and pants. He didn't even realize how badly he was shaking until Steve brushed his hands out of the way to take over the job himself.

“S'okay. You're okay now. 'M never letting you out of my sight again, baby boy.”

Bucky melted into Steve's chest.

Steve pressed a kiss against the crown of Bucky's head.

“Let's get you to the infirmary,” Steve said. “Need to get you checked out. Then we'll go home where I can properly take care of you.”

“Home?”

“What part of 'I'm not letting you out of my sight again' didn't you understand?”

“I don't really need an infirmary. It's not that bad.”

“Buck...”

Sir's voice rippled awareness through Bucky's body. It wasn't Steve Rogers, worried ex-husband asking him to see a doctor; it was Steve Rogers, dominant ordering him to get checked out. Bucky submitted. Gracefully. And allowed Steve the peace of mind of a full medical check-up.

Keeping him in a hospital bed was another matter entirely. He escaped three times to look in on Warren while the doctor's back was turned. Eventually, Sam Wilson, head nurse, plopped himself in a chair just inside Bucky's room and froze him in place with the nurse's “don't you dare” eyes.

Turned out that Warren would fully recover. Broken nose. Facial contusions. A mild concussion. Candy, Brock, and Sin sat with him and kept Bucky updated on Warren's condition, and once Bucky was released with a clean bill of health, he was able to stop by himself.

He found Warren sitting up, dark bruises forming under his eyes.

“My hero,” greeted Bucky.

“You're damn right,” Warren exclaimed, but he softened the harder edge of his tone by opening both arms, arms Bucky sank into gratefully, allowing himself to be cuddled.

For a second, the phantom voice of his father shouted that real men didn't need comfort, that God-fearing men didn't cuddle with another man, that doing so was a sign of sinfulness, a sign of weakness, a symptom of Bucky's unforgivable sin.

Well, Bucky told that voice to fuck right off and snuggled tighter into Warren's arms, which was where Steve found him an hour later. Bucky headed off Steve's jealousy with a dopey smile. His lover softened and padded closer to kiss him on the forehead. Warren also received a kiss on the head.

Eventually, Brock Rumlow said “fuck it” and climbed into the cuddle pile as well.

XXXXX

Time was something of a blur following Clint's injury. He'd lost some things surrounding the attack. For instance, he couldn't remember being hit on the head, couldn't remember rolling down a hill away from his attacker, couldn't remember anything with any sort of clarity up until waking in the emergency room surrounded by first responders.

Things went fuzzy again after that. His admitting physician, Dr. Hussain, kept him in the hospital for a week while inflammation in his brain subsided. Apparently the pressure had become so great they'd needed to perform an emergency procedure to drain cerebral fluid in an effort to relieve the pressure. When that hadn't worked, they'd gone on to removing a piece of his skull.

So when he woke a week after his initial hospitalization and opened his eyes to Barney Barton sitting in a chair beside his bed, he wondered briefly if he was hallucinating. Brain damage. A shit ton of morphine. Hallucinations could happen, right?

“I don't know if you're actually sitting there, or if my broken brain has made you up,” he croaked.

“What's your gut tell you?” Barney uncrossed his ankle from atop his knee and leaned forward, a ratty t-shirt bearing the logo of his carnival company pulling taught across his shoulders.

“That if I died, you'd bury me in a dress and write my obituary as Chleo Barton.”

Barney didn't look hurt; he looked unflappable. As usual.

“Look up the story of Jennifer Gable some time. What are you doing here?”

“I'm still your emergency contact, Clint.”

Something melted inside him over hearing that name come from Barney's lips.

“Some doc called right after the attack. Said you was in a bad way. Something about your brain swelling and an emergency procedure to relieve the pressure. Got on the first plane I could manage.”

“Yeah, but why are you here?”

“Shit, Chle--” His brother stopped himself and cringed. “Clint. You almost died.”

“Guess I just didn't realize that'd matter to you.”

“What the fuck? I changed your diapers when you was a baby. I wiped your bloody nose after every scrap you got into. It don't matter what's going on between us, I'm still gonna be here.”

“Yeah, well you weren't when I needed you most.” Huffing, he rolled onto his side away from Barney. Moving upset his head, but he couldn't stand to look at his brother at the moment.

Silence permeated the atmosphere. He could hear the soft whir of the machine pushing fluids through his IV. Somebody had a home improvement show going on in the background.

A chair scraped across the linoleum. Warm, calloused hands reached between the bars of his hospital bed to grip his forearm. Barney exhaled a quiet “Fuck.”

“I only ever fucking wanted to keep you safe. Chleo Barton was a lot safer living in the troupe than Clint Barton. I fucking knew how to protect her but didn't have no idea how to protect the mouthy trans kid who wasn't willing to live in the closet no more. Not from the fuckers we worked around. They wouldn't-a hesitated to take you behind the johns and teach you how to be a woman.

“Fucking had nightmares thinking I was gonna wake up in the middle of the night hearing you screaming for help but not being able to get to you in time. The people we worked around? Trans kids got a lot higher death rates than—ah shit, I don't know what I'm supposed to call it. You always look at me like I killed your fucking puppy when I say 'normal kids.' Lot higher suicide rates, too.”

“How do you know that?”

“You think I don't know how to open a book just 'cause I didn't pass tenth grade? My kid sister's telling me she shoulda been born a boy. 'Course I'm gonna crack a fucking book.”

“I didn't know,” Clint said. “Why didn't you ever tell me that?”

“Guess maybe I kept hoping you'd grow out of it. Or you'd figure out how much danger you was in and spare your old brother an early-fucking-heart-attack.” He punctuated it with a shrug. “You know I ain't too good at talking about shit like this.”

“I need you to get good at it. Do you understand? I need you to be my brother, not my protector.”

Barney didn't respond right away. Rather, he grazed his thumb back and forth across the pulse point in Clint's wrist. Eventually, he said, “You're gonna have to teach me. 'Cause we been through too much to give up on each other now, right? Family's family. You don't quit on family.”

Clint dashed a stray tear off his cheek. “Fuck.” Then, easing into a sitting position, he wrapped both arms around Barney. The fact that Barney hugged him back for a full thirty seconds before he started fidgeting said something about how disturbed he was over the attack. “You don't quit on family. I never thanked you.”

“For what?”

“All the sacrifices you made to make sure I went to school and got my diploma.”

“Ah Hell, buddy. Don't go thanking me for shit that was my responsibility to take care of.”

The door opened without anyone knocking, startling the both of them. Barney jumped backward away from the embrace and settled himself in his chair. Clint tried not to read too much into it and ignored the reaction entirely when a pair of beefy arms and thick legs carried in the biggest flower arrangement he'd ever seen. Carnations and baby's breath spilled around roses and lilies.

Whoever carried the arrangement—Clint couldn't see their face past the arrangement—walked into the rolling table before Barney shot to his feet and directed the newcomer to a shelf containing balloons and other flower arrangements. The visitor divested themselves of their burden, revealing a bowler hat, electric red hair, and a half-smoked cigar. A nurse chased Tim into the room and made him put his cigar out in a cup of water.

“Mr. Cadwallader?”

“Get back on your feet, Bustier, 'cause soon as you're cleared for active duty, your ass is mine.”

“Figuratively? Or... literally.”

“What?” Tim's ears turned red. “No! What the fuck, Anheuser-Busch?”

Clint snickered.

“Got all your paperwork cleared.” Tim wagged a finger at him. “Next time you're hiding from an abusive ex, don't go making up fake names.”

“That's totally not what happened!”

“I know a troublemaker when I sees 'im.”

“That's not even close--”

Winking, Tim spun about on his heel and exited stage left. His voice floated after him. “Nurse Wilson, you owe me a goddamn cigar! And you keep a sharp eye on Bollywood in there. 'Cause I'm gonna need him after field day. There's gonna be lube and jizz everywhere after field day!”

Barney, eyes wide, caught Clint's gaze. “Where the fuck do you work, buddy?”

XXXXX

Being taken care of was... strange. Bucky was learning to let Steve take care of him, which apparently included being bullied into taking a mid-afternoon nap he hadn't known he needed but woke from feeling fresher. Funny how stress could be so damn exhausting.

He stretched, fingertips reaching toward the headboard, toes brushing the foot board. Sinew popped all along his body. Then, he sagged against the bed and smacked his lips.

Only then did he hear murmured voices from the common area, Steve's and a woman's. First thing he figured was Pepper had stopped by for a visit. Pepper and Steve were close. She was frequent guest of the Rogers residence. But that wasn't Pepper's voice.

Bucky shot up in bed. He threw back the covers and dashed from the bedroom, skidding around the doorway and barreling into the great room where he came face to face with Rebecca Barnes. Brock was sprawled across an armchair and was the first to see him.

“Hey, Kiddo.”

“Becca?”

She turned toward him. New lines etched her face. Silver strands threaded her hair. But her eyes, the soft gray-blue that was so prominent in the Barnes family, were the same. Concern bled from her features, and she opened her arms for him.

It was the only prompting necessary. He stepped into her arms and pressed his face into her shoulder. “You're here.” She felt rail-thin in his arms. Breakable, almost. “How are you here?”

“Your friend, Brock, got in touch with my office.” Her accent was watered down, laced with Finnish instead of their native accent. “He said you've been asking about me.”

“Why did you leave me?” He hadn't meant the question to come out and moved to correct himself. “So-sorry. That was-- It wasn't your place to rescue me.”

Her arms tightened around him. There was a surprising amount of strength there given her thinness.

“I was going to take you with me,” she murmured against his ear. “Had bags packed for you and plane tickets booked to get us both out of the country. Mom and Dad found out. They called the cops. Had me arrested for attempted kidnapping.

“Once I got out of jail,” she continued, “I filed charges with CPS. Tried to petition for custody, but our parents were upstanding members of the community, and who's going to listen to someone who was barely twenty over Pastor Barnes and his loving wife?

“I failed you, and I'm so sorry,” she concluded, easing back in order to cup his face in both hands. Her thumbs skated across his cheekbones to take away tears lingering there.

It was strange how having an explanation caused something to settle into place. A closet door that had been left ajar finally clicking closed to prevent its ghosts from seeping into a child's bedroom. Ghosts from his past. They could finally be exorcised.

Once he snuffled back the tears and could speak without his voice wavering, he offered a tremulous smile and eased back enough to graze his thumb across her cheekbone. “Are you okay? I mean, how have you been? It's been so long. Everything is good in Finland?”

Steve made tea.

God help him, but Bucky was starting to become acclimated to Steve's tea.

They all sat down in the great room, Becca perched next to him on the sofa, their fingers entwined, his hand resting on her lap. Some time as Steve and Becca were talking about Dr. Sofen, Brock got up and headed for the front door. Bucky jumped up to stop him before the man could slip out.

“Thank you,” Bucky said.

Brock flashed a crooked grin and reached up to ruffle Bucky's hair. “Don't mention it, Kid.”

Bucky cupped the nape of the man's neck and pulled him down for a brief kiss. “Talk to you later?”

“Dinner with Sin and me. Bring Steve. We'll have a picnic or something.”

Brock left, and Bucky returned to the sofa where he tucked himself in beside Becca again.

XXXXX

“Do not get up. I will get for you,” Wanda said.

Clint was pretty sure his family, as imperfect and wonderful as it was, would be the sole reason for him going bonkers. Being released from the hospital hadn't stopped the mother-henning. In fact, it had only gotten worse. Between Barney, Wanda, and Pietro, he wasn't allowed to get off the sofa without someone volunteering to run his errand for him.

Wanda bounced up the ladder into his sleeping loft and returned with a soft hoodie she helped him into. Then, after popping a kiss against his mouth, she danced into the kitchen to check on the tea kettle. His girlfriend was the very definition of vitality, and he was ninety percent sure his face would crack from smiling so goddamn much whenever she was around.

She'd taken his admission to being Clint instead of Brian in stride. He was beginning to think nothing could faze her, but then came the day Magnus Maximoff arrived on the island and his lover's complexion turned sickly. She became withdrawn. And Clint was disgusted by the way Magnus talked to his children, as though he was lord and master and his word law.

That visit lasted about as long as it took Pietro to get wind of his father's presence, at which point, Wanda's fears of Pietro giving in to their father's demands were proved groundless. Pietro didn't back down. He didn't tuck tail and submit. Rather, he stood between Magnus and Wanda to buffer her from their father's temper and ushered the man onto a jet and off the island.

Wanda stuck close by after her father's visit. Late night cuddles on the sofa? His girl practically moving in with him? No complaints on Clint's part. After a few days, though, she regained her equilibrium and returned to the vivacious old soul he'd come to love.

XXXXX

It took about a week for Bucky to notice anything was wrong with Becca. Eden had several gourmet restaurants on the island staffed with celebrity chefs, but there were also more modest options when it came to dining. Right down to a McDonalds with its famous golden arches. They had dinner often while getting reacquainted. Sometimes, it was just Becca and him. Usually, Steve would join them. Sometimes the whole group of Buck's found family got together.

The one constant was how little Becca ate. He didn't make anything of it at first, but after the fifth night of watching his sister nibble on bread while everyone else passed around family style platters of meat and seafood, he gave in to the alarm bells awakening inside his body.

Eventually, he started noticing the way her eyes tracked the food, the hunger barely restrained in her visage, and he put the pieces together from there. In short, he was afraid his sister suffered an eating disorder, but how did you bring something like that up with a sibling you hadn't spoken to in damn near ten years? What right did he have to reenter her life and begin making changes?

Urging her to recognize the problem and get help gave him an inside look at how Steve had felt while trying to get Bucky to see a therapist. She just wasn't willing to accept that anything was abnormal. Either that, or she wouldn't admit it to his face.

Knowing how much he'd hated being nagged, he took a different approach and started sending her links to various websites with information about disordered eating. That way she could read them at her own leisure without being constantly bombarded by a concerned relative.

By the second week of her stay on Eden, she caved. She sat down with him in the orchard, and they finally talked about growing up with their parents. They finally opened up to each other, finally lanced the infected abscess growing inside them.

And the abuse hadn't just been done to him, he quickly found out. Maybe Becca hadn't been born gay. Maybe she hadn't been forced into conversion therapy. But she'd still suffered. From being forced to wear ankle-length skirts and never cut her hair to being unable to spend the night at a friend's house unless said friend was a member of the church community. 

Having it instilled in her from the earliest age that women were whores who needed to have to their natural inclination toward lust and temptation strictly controlled had rendered her incapable of having a normal relationship. Years upon years of being taught to be obedient and subservient to men meant she'd struggled ten times harder than anyone else to make it in the STEM field, which was already geared toward male dominance.

They ached for each other. They cried with each other, and finally, they managed to let go under the watchful gaze of Jericho Drumm, who managed to convince Becca to have a family session. By the time they left his office, they felt cut open, raw, and exposed. But the only way an infection could be healed was after the rot had been excised.

XXXXX

Nat bounded down the stairs off the jet and threw her arms around Clint's shoulders. “Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Partner? Back on your feet and everything.”

He gathered her up in his arms and spun in a brief circle. Big mistake. He wasn't back to one hundred percent yet, and spinning was bad. Once his head stopped whirling, he asked, “Everything go okay with the extradition?”

“Yep. Mr. Nefaria and Ms. Hardy have deluxe suites at Rikers Island awaiting trial on various charges. Like, a lot of charges. I didn't bother to count.”

“Who's being assigned for Barnes' protection detail until the trial?”

“Myself. Jessica Jones. Luke Cage.”

“That should do it. Anyone who tries to get past the three of you is gonna come out looking like they ran through a meat grinder. How'd Fury take it?”

“Your letter of resignation?”

He nodded.

Nat shrugged. “'Bout as well as can be expected. Honestly, I think he was expecting it, but you know how he is. Hates losing talent. He's probably gonna call you. Try to sweeten your perk package, but don't you dare cave, Buster. I don't care what he offers you.”

Clint looked over his shoulder where Wanda and Pietro were waiting in an NEV. When he looked back at Nat, his face hurt from smiling. “Not a chance.”

His former partner paused and cocked her head to the side. “You look happy. Eden's been real good for you, you know that, right?”

“Not hiding who I am's been real good to me.”

Nat laced her arm through his so they could stroll toward their waiting transport. “Chief Fury wants to set up a booth at New York Pride this year. You know. Make the NYPD a friendlier place for-- There's a word that goes here, but I'm not sure if it's offensive or not.”

“I don't mind if you say 'queer' instead of LGBTQIA. Some people might, but I don't mind.”

“In that case... Make the NYPD a safe place for queer people to go for help. Thought maybe I'd sign up to take a turn manning the booth. That okay with you?”

“Nat, that's more than okay with me.”

They climbed into the NEV. Clint leaned over to steal a kiss from Wanda, but the real eye-opening moment was their arrival back at the main resort. Nat caught sight of a man waiting in the lobby, and her face lit up the way he'd never seen it before. 

He recognized the recipient of that dopey look from his well-guarded ex-partner: Matt Murdock, the submissive she'd been assigned during her undercover stay on Eden. And if she drifted toward the man without so much as an “I'll see you later, Clint,” he was a good enough friend not to mention it. Looked like Eden hadn't just been good to him.

XXXXX

Apricot rope threaded between each of Bucky's fingers. Those four lines wove into a circular pattern of knots atop the back of Bucky's hands, which were positioned palm to palm in the form of prayer. Ropes bound his palms together before splitting and traveling up each forearm in an intricate spiderweb pattern, encasing each arm up to the elbow.

From there, red rope wove amidst the apricot to secure his forearms to a ladder-like pattern stretching across the expanse of Bucky's torso. It prevented him from flailing. Allowed him to feel secure in the knowledge he couldn't go anywhere if he tried. Not unless he safe-worded.

More apricot rope threaded through and around each toe of one leg, and Steve had spent almost an hour weaving the rope into a sandal that laced up around Bucky's ankle and calf. That foot had been locked into a clip suspended from the ceiling, holding his leg aloft and allowing his ass to barely graze the bed. Grounding mixed with weightlessness.

His submissive's other leg was folded at a ninety degree angle and held there with a series of apricot and red ropes preventing him from straightening his leg. The knee of that leg had been secured to the foot board of the bed in Steve's private playroom.

In short, Steve had Bucky at his mercy, and he stepped back to survey his handiwork. His partner's eyes were closed, his breathing even, an expression of peace displaying his relaxation. The thought that Steve had almost never seen this side of Bucky made him incredibly sad.

“Comfortable?” asked Steve.

“Yes,” Bucky responded without opening his eyes. “Feel a little floaty.”

“What's your safe word?”

“Red.”

“And what if you need a minute to breathe?”

“Yellow.”

“Do you want a blindfold?”

“No. I wanna watch this time.”

Steve folded his lips between his teeth to swallow his smile. His Jelly Belly had come so far. Collecting a tray, he settled it on the bed next to Bucky's hip and climbed into bed beside him. He didn't go right for the instruments. Rather, he drizzled some massage oil into his palm, warmed it between his hands, and kneaded along the man's thighs and abdomen.

Bucky arched into the touch like an overgrown cat, and for a while, the only sounds inside the playroom were those of contentment: their even breathing, the rasp of fabric as they shifted across the bed, the occasional hum when Steve's fingers worked loose a particularly nasty knot of muscle.

Long minutes passed before he even paid any attention to his partner's cock, which was beginning to fatten up and laid heavily against the man's belly. When he finally took notice, he cradled his lover's penis with tender hands and worked both thumbs up the underside until he pressed gently against the sensitive frenulum. A dollop of pre-come oozed from the slit.

His partner gasped and arched into the touch.

After getting more oil, he returned to Bucky's cock, skimmed his palm loosely around the shaft, cradled the blood-hot flesh between both palms, and kneaded his thumbs into the glans. Within moments, Bucky's erection went from half-mast to rock hard, and his partner writhed under the attention.

“Ready, Jelly Belly?”

“Yeah,” Buck responded in a breathless voice.

Steve selected the smallest diameter from his tray of sounds. It was made of surgical grade steel with a slight hook near one end of the shaft. Steve paused to graze his lips over his partner's bare shoulder and allowed himself a moment to recognize how casually stunning Bucky was. The absurd thing was Bucky had no concept of his own beauty.

“What do we say when we're playing, baby boy?”

“Cake isn't a sin,” he breathed.

“Your body was made to feel this kind of joy. It belongs to you. This body belongs to you.”

“And you, Sir,” Bucky murmured.

“Just like my body belongs to me and to you.”

Steve positioned himself beside Bucky's hip. He dipped the sounding rod into medical grade lube, cradled his partner's penis in one hand, and nudged the tip of the sound against the other man's urethra.

Bucky arched. Breath hissed through his teeth.

Steve backed off.

He didn't try again until his partner had relaxed. This time, he eased the sound just inside the slit and gently, oh so gently, began to press forward.

Bucky damn near reacted like he'd been touched with a cattle prod. His chest heaved as he sucked in great gulps of air, so Steve backed off again. Gave him time to calm down so he could ease his lover into the sensations.

“I need you to breathe, Jelly Belly. Calm down your breathing.”

His submissive did. Slowly.

Steve pressed forward again, fascinated by watching the steel glide effortlessly into Bucky's urethra. His partner remained still, hands clenched into fists, neck straining to hold his head from the pillow while he too watched the progress.

“Oh Jelly Belly, I can feel the crook inside your cock.” He coupled the statement by rubbing his thumb against the exterior of Bucky's cock where he could feel the sound.

A soft whine escaped the other man. His submissive surrendered to the sensation and struggled to hold his hips still. He couldn't stop the shaking in his thighs.

“Color, Jelly Belly?”

“Green. So fucking green.”

“Feel good?”

“Yeah. Makes my whole cock feel real sensitive.”

Steve smirked. He didn't warn Bucky before rubbing his fingers against his partner's taint. It pressed the tip of the sound against the other man's prostate, and when that happened, Bucky keened. He keened and arched his back, his head digging into the pillow beneath it.

At the same time, Steve coupled the sensation by stroking the cock in his hand gently. 

Bucky went wild. He sobbed and writhed. He cried out for relief one moment only to scream for his pleasure to be drawn out the next.

And Steve fell in love. He fell in love with how open Bucky's body was, how responsive he allowed himself to be. Wonder filled him. To compare where they'd come from to where they ended up was like night and day. That, more than anything, filled Steve with joy. His baby boy was healing.

After a few moments of torment, he flattened himself onto his stomach, supporting the weight of the sound with his hand cradling his lover's hard cock. He sucked one of the man's balls into his mouth. Licked a fat strip up the underside of Bucky's shaft and rolled his tongue against the blood-hot glans.

“Fuck. Yellow!”

He immediately eased back.

“Check in with me, Jelly Belly.”

“Too much. Can't handle your mouth and the sound at the same time. 'S'too sensitive.”

“Such a good job, baby boy. Great communication.” He rewarded Bucky by placing kisses over the man's hips and stomach, anywhere but his oversensitive genitals.

He sat back on his heels to survey his handiwork. Sweat glistened along his lover's flesh. It pooled in the hollow of his throat and collected in the grooves of his pronounced Apollo's Belt. Steve itched to sketch his lover. Maybe one day, he'd ask Bucky to pose for him.

For now, though, he couldn't resist the temptation of tormenting Bucky just once more. His fingers closed around Bucky's shaft and stroked from base to tip, the pad of his thumb grazing down the center of the shaft until he could press against the bend of the sound.

His lover nearly shot off the bed. He may have were it not for the ropes restraining him.

“Fuck!” shouted Bucky. “I need to come. I need to. Please, Sir. Please, can I come?”

“You've been such a good boy I think you deserve that. Do you want to come in my mouth?”

Bucky shook his head, swallowed, and struggled to find his voice. “Inside me. Want to come with you inside me. Please fuck me, Sir.”

Steve didn't rush through the process of reversing the sound's path. The urethra was a delicate thing and should never be risked when the result could be a urinary tract infection or any number of injuries, so he took his time, gentled Bucky through the process, pressed a hand to Bucky's stomach to hold him down when his lover tried to arch toward the contact.

Finally, when the sound slipped free, Steve rolled on a condom and positioned himself between his lover's outstretched thighs. At first, all he did was nudge Bucky's hole with the head of his cock, causing his lover to arch toward the contact.

He slicked himself with more lube, took his lover's flushed cock into his hand, and penetrated his lover with one long, slow slide. His cockhead briefly caught against Bucky's rim before popping past the ring of muscle, muscle that fluttered around him, and Steve couldn't stop his jaw from clenching, and he prayed for the stamina and control necessary to make it last.

He bottomed out. His balls and the light dusting of blond hair on them were cradled in the valley of his lover's ass. Bucky was split open and sobbing, head thrown back and chest arched beautifully. A litany of praise tumbled from his parted lips. A Gregorian chant filling the hallowed halls of the sacred place their bedroom had become.

“Cake isn't a sin. Cake isn't a fucking sin. Oh fuck, Stevie. Stevie, they lied. They lied so bad. I love you so much. Please don't ever leave me again. Please let me be your baby boy.”

“Always,” Steve murmured against Bucky's lips. “You're always my baby boy. 'M never letting you go again. Never.”

When he felt Bucky finally relax, when the mania and giddiness bled into something revered, when they had consecrated their bed with their profound love, Steve finally moved. He eased out until his lover held only the throbbing head. He clutched at one of Bucky's shoulders for leverage before slamming back inside. Skin slapped against skin.

His lover wailed.

The rhythm of sex was ancient, and he found it, spearing his lover with hard, slow thrusts that rocked Bucky's body. And there was nothing Bucky could to do to wrest back control. Nothing he even attempted. His only option was to take it, to take it and concentrate on the sensations of it and trust his dominant would give him what he needed.

Teeth gritted, Steve braced himself, one hand on Bucky's chest, the other gripping the ropes binding his lover's bent leg, and drove into the needy clutch of his lover's ass. He curled his hips, leaned back, tried to find a different angle. He ignored his own impending orgasm. Clutched at the tight control slipping through his fingers.

“Stevie!” Bucky shouted. “Right the fuck there. Fucking shit. Right there.”

He allowed himself only a moment of satisfaction in having found Bucky's prostate before hammering the sensitive bundle of nerves. Bucky's body seized. His lover's head dropped back. He came untouched. Ribbons of semen splattered their chests and chins. The beauty and openness of his expression as he came was something Steve would relive in his dreams.

Only after he'd fucked his lover through the quaking aftermath did he allow his own body the release it craved. He pounded Bucky's hole until his rhythm faltered, until his balls pulled tight, until he emptied inside the condom with hot pulses that left him winded and over-sensitive.

Later, when Steve had cleaned them up and they rested in a nest of blankets together, Bucky commented, “You realize I'm marrying you for your crack tea and your playroom, right?”

Steve burst into a fit of laughter. “Always knew that chocolate tea would snag me a man.”

XXXXX

Mixed emotions rattled around inside Bucky's head while watching Warren approach the airstrip while pulling a suitcase behind him. The man looked good. His skin was sun-kissed. His hair had been bleached a softer shade of blond after weeks spent on the island. The bruising from his broken nose had long since faded, but the man's profile would be forever changed.

Warren stopped in front of him.

“Did it work?” blurted Bucky.

“What do you mean?”

“You said your doctor suggested you find a way to cope with your stress. Did Eden work?”

“You know, I think it did. Met this crazy guy from Gopher Hole, Indiana. He's a real charmer. Put things into perspective for me. Probably helped that I snuck a shit ton of Maui Wowie onto the island. Smoked that shit like it was going out of style.”

“And you didn't share?” Bucky scoffed.

“You're on a diet.”

“Am not! Oh my God, you totally didn't share. I must despise you now.”

“Was that a Willow reference?” A beat of silence passed. “That was totally a Willow reference when Bavmorda realizes Sorcha has betrayed her and is helping Madmardigan.”

“That was back when Val Kilmer was smoking hot. It was the hair,” Bucky joked.

Something awkward settled between them before Warren said, “You'll keep in touch, right?”

“Are you kidding? I'm pregnant with your baby. You're gonna be hearing from my lawyer soon. I so hope you got a nice, cushy job so you can afford the child support payments.”

“You only gave me a hand job!” cried Warren.

“Must mean you've got some pretty powerful swimmers, then.”

Warren laughed and stepped into Bucky's waiting embrace. “God, I'm gonna miss your crazy ass.”

“Just my ass?”

“Yeah, just your ass. It is your best feature.”

“Seriously. Take care of yourself, Warren.”

They embraced again, and Bucky watched the man board a jet back to the mainland. That guy would always hold a special place in his heart. He was the first person who'd reached across the divide, extended a hand to some rando who'd forgotten how to be intimate with people. Warren had been just crazy enough to slip under Bucky's radar. Nothing that had happened on Eden would have happened were it not for Warren cracking open the safe Bucky's heart had been hidden away inside.

Clint suddenly saying, “That guy's the president and CEO of Worthington Industries” startled the heck out of Bucky, and he nearly shot out of his skin.

He did a double-take. “The Worthington Industries?”

“Yep.”

“No shit.”

“So,” Clint began, “photography director of Eden, huh? Not a bad gig.”

“Beats landscaping while working under that guy.” Bucky indicated Tim Cadwallader, whose neon white skin could likely be seen from the International Space Station. The guy wore a bowler hat and too-bright swim trunks while wading through a koi pond.

“Don't know. It's not so bad. Fucker still refuses to say my name right, but I kinda like the work.”

“Company's not so bad, either.” Bucky inclined his head toward Wanda and Steve, who both stood a safe distance away arguing with Tony.

Bucky grinned. His phone chimed an incoming text from Brock with a link to a video of Grumpy Cat singing “You're not my sunshine. I hate sunshine. It's hot and burn-y on my fur. And if you love me, jump off a bridge. Please take my sunshine away.” He burst into a fit of laughter and forwarded it to his contacts list.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Do not sound unless you are well practice and studied. Inserting things into a urethra can cause quite a lot of damage. Steve is a professional with a great deal of experience.


End file.
